The Senator's Wife
by indie
Summary: AU created during AotC.  Story is set 4 years after RotS.  Senator Organa's wife waits for her lover and catalogs her sins. Padme
1. Chapter 1

**The Senator's Wife**

**by indie**

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is pretty short and it is complete. I do intend to write more stories and vignettes set in the universe created for this story. They will be added as additional chapters to this story._

* * *

She paces the living room, glancing out the window at the panoramic view of Imperial Center. Despite the luxuriously comfortable furnishings, she does not sit while she waits. She hates this place, this chic apartment in the most exclusive address on the planet.

This apartment is not all she hates.

Her loathing for herself far outstrips any animosity she feels toward the place reserved for their clandestine affair.

He's late – as usual – and she despises him all the more for it. He may be the one person she hates more than herself, yet perversely that fact makes her hate herself even more. He makes her wait in order to prove a point, to prove that it is his schedule that matters, his wants that matter. He needs to prove to her that she means nothing to him.

She looks at the door and considers leaving. Her cloak is draped over the back of the absurdly expensive repulsor couch. She needs merely to scoop it up and head for the turbolift.

She turns back to the view. She has no intention of leaving, any more than he has any intention of not showing up. He'll be here. He always is. Belittling and cruel, he makes her regret their physical passion every time.

But if she ignores his words, if she ignores the way he treats her when they are both in the armor of their own clothes, then she can almost believe he is the man she still loves. His words can lie, but his touch cannot.

The apartment has an impressive view of the Senate complex and she knows it is no accident. He undoubtedly chose this apartment for that very reason. He wants her to stand here in his arms and be forced to think of the husband she betrays like clockwork. Her eyes fall shut at the thought. She will not cry. For if she cries, he will know why and he will be doubly vicious, doubly demanding.

Bail Organa deserves so much more from a wife than the bitter deceit she provides. He is a good man, proud and just. He is a wonderful father to Luke and Leia. As a lover he is kind and considerate. And yet, her body does not burn for his touch. She does not hunger for the texture of his skin beneath her fingers, for the taste of his kiss against her tongue.

With a huff, she resumes her pacing. She is achy, impatient. Her temper is waspish. She hates her lover all the more for these facts. She knows this feeling, this insatiable hunger within her. She wants to hit and bite and scream and love. Everything inside her hungers for his touch – _now._

She knows her body. She knows what these feelings mean and the consequences they herald. She knows it just as well today as she did five years ago. If he comes to her here and now, if they sate their passions today, a child will be conceived. The child will be a full sibling to her beloved Luke and Leia. Only this child won't be fathered by her loving Jedi protector, Anakin Skywalker. This child will be fathered by the Emperor's most vicious servant, Darth Vader.

She is disgusted with herself, with her weakness. It took everything she had to turn him away at Geonosis, to verbally deny her feelings toward him. And then he was wounded and so vulnerable and she could not stay away. He wanted more – of course. He always wants more. His passions are insatiable. After the first encounter, he pursued her relentlessly. He wanted to marry her – she actually laughed in his face at the idea.

He did not respond well.

She would not marry him. The very idea was absurd. She was a senator, he a Jedi Padawan. They would have been forced to lie to everyone they loved, everyone they trusted. So despite the aching void she felt for him, she crushed the idea.

If only she could have crushed what she felt for him so easily. It was difficult to ignore him. As the Clone Wars progressed he became increasingly more famous, The Hero With No Fear. She found it nearly impossible to escape talk of him, holonet reports of his exploits. Every dinner conversation of the war effort included mention of him.

And then came the rumor he was killed.

It brought her entire existence to a grinding halt. Anakin could not be dead. It wasn't possible. She was in mourning, in a state of constant agitation and depression, desperate for any word of him. Even worse, she could not admit her feelings to anyone.

And then, unexpectedly, she did nothing more proactive than glance over her shoulder one afternoon on her way into the Senate buildings and there he was, lost in conversation with two other Jedi.

He saw her and quickly extricated himself from the conversation. She was unable to speak, overwhelmed with the reality that he was standing in front of her, whole and unharmed.

Unable to stop herself, she immediately reached out for him, kissing him greedily. He took full advantage of her reaction. Grace forgotten, he half-dragged, half-carried her to her private shuttle. It was clumsy and inelegant and glorious.

They finally ended up in her apartment, in her bed. Thanks to the war and her own cruelty, he was older, quieter. He did not beg her for promises or effusively profess his feelings. He was gentle and loving. Perhaps he came to the same realization as she - their relationship was doomed. There was no talk of their future together, no talk of a next time. That fact did not stop either of them from enjoying their stolen moment. She was desperate to imprint him indelibly on her memory.

When he finally left he had missed the convoy to the Outer Rim and most certainly would be disciplined.

When he finally left, she was pregnant with Luke and Leia.

Bail was always one of her closest friends and he became her lone confidant. She told him everything about Anakin and her condition. She told him she had no intention of informing Anakin of the pregnancy. The knowledge would not, _could not_, change either of their paths and it would only make their choices harder.

Bail was widowed several years earlier and when he suggested a marriage, she immediately rejected the idea. She would not be a burden to him. She would not force him to claim another man's child.

But Bail persisted in his own kind and logical way. He cared for her, he respected her and he finally admitted, he was rather smitten with her. He swore he had wanted a child for a very long time, had thought himself too old. He said he would welcome the opportunity to raise a child with her regardless of the child's true paternity. It was not genetics, he said, but rather actions that made a man a father.

Padmé was fond of him and he made a very convincing argument. She did not relish the idea of showing up on her parents' doorstep pregnant and jobless in need of shelter.

She accepted Bail's proposal. She resigned her seat in the Senate and she became his wife.

And then came the end of the Clone Wars, Order 66 and Palpatine's rise to Emperor. Despite Padmé's affection for her new husband she mourned the death of the Jedi – the death of Anakin Skywalker – so profoundly it sent her into early labor.

The twins were born healthy and strong. Bail supported his wife, pretending not to notice how soul-deep her sorrow ran.

She clearly remembers the first time she saw Darth Vader, the Emperor's wrath. The menacing, shadowy form draped in black Zeyd-cloth robes was indistinguishable as human. Yet there was something so familiar about him, even from the great distance which she viewed him at one of the Emperor's grand parades several months after the end of the war.

She went out of her way to walk alone, knowing, somehow, he would find her. He did. His voice was broken, rasping. The only part of his face visible beneath the black hood was his jaw. A human jaw.

He ordered her to stop. She did. One of his black gloved hands grasped her jaw, forcing her face toward his. She was still unable to distinguish any of his features beneath the hood. But there was something there. Something she could not deny.

"Anakin?" she asked, her voice quavering with emotion.

He immediately released her, pushing her away so abruptly she stumbled and fell. "Whore!" he spat at her in his gravelly voice.

And then he was gone and she knew. Anakin Skywalker had survived.

She never told Bail about the encounter. She couldn't. She didn't want to admit the man who fathered her children was now the most feared creature in the galaxy. She didn't want to admit whatever role she may have played in his transformation.

Yet, she knew he would not stay away. Whatever goodness in Anakin Skywalker allowed him to set her free was destroyed. Lord Vader clearly viewed her as a possession.

For months the harassment persisted. It was a vicious dance, a careful ballet she stepped through with herself as much as with him. She warred with her own desires as much as she did with his demands. He could have forced her, that much was always shockingly clear. Yet he never did. As much as he wanted – and intended – to win, it was not in such a manner. Coercion, manipulation, those are his tools where she is concerned.

Yet for all of his lies and petty threats, it was his truth that finally drew her to him. He hassled her for months, when she shopped or walked or did anything alone. He never approached her when Bail or the twins were near and for that she was intensely grateful. But she knows she found more and more excuses to be alone in public, giving him the opportunity for contact.

It was to this apartment that he finally brought her. It was here that he finally revealed what lay beneath the hood and robes.

She knew from the damage to his voice he was grievously wounded.

He stood there, vulnerable, allowing her to bear witness to the damage Obi-Wan inflicted. He refuses to elaborate on what exactly happened on Mustafar. She only knows there was a vicious battle and he was nearly killed in the process of murdering his former mentor.

His face was left unscathed and for that she is secretly happy. His torso was not so lucky. Most of it is covered with raw skin grafts that make her question the Emperor's true intention toward his apprentice. His right leg was amputated above the knee and replaced with a mechanical limb.

He was quiet, watching her reaction, waiting for her horror or refusal. She gave him neither. She gave him herself.

She wonders if it is his failings rather than his abilities that have always attracted her. She wonders if he remembered her reaction after the Battle of Geonosis and counted on her sympathy to draw her near yet again.

Regardless of what brought them here, it is done. She is Lord Vader's lover. She betrays her husband, finding pleasure in a Sith's arms.

She knows Bail is not stupid. She knows he must suspect. And she knows he probably understands far more than she would ever allow herself to admit. They often discuss the Empire's problems, the most egregious human rights violations. Now and then Bail will discuss a particular project of his with such passion, explain it to her so pointedly she has the distinct impression he wants her to champion the cause to her lover.

Now and then, she does.

For all of his high-handed pronouncements and power plays, there are times when her lover is quiet, gentle. There are times when he touches her so carefully, so lovingly, she knows there is good in him.

She wonders if in several months time he will suspect the child conceived today is his. As far as she knows, he believes Luke and Leia to be Bail's children. He never mentions them and he bristles when she slips and does so. But then again, maybe not everything is as it seems.

She often wonders at the fact that he shares her affections with Bail. She suspects it has much to do with the Emperor. As long as she is publicly viewed as Bail Organa's wife, as the mother of Bail Organa's children, the Emperor has no reason to suspect she means anything to his apprentice. Surely Lord Vader would not suffer such an insult as to share his lover. Surely Lord Vader would not allow another man to claim his children.

The door to the apartment hisses open and she turns, watching him walk into the room.

She crosses her arms, regarding him warily. "I've been waiting for you."

End


	2. Mine

"Mine"

by indie

Companion piece to "The Senator's Wife"

NOTE: There is an alternate version of this story available at my personal site

* * *

She is loathe to wake and grunts in annoyance as she feels the mattress depress under his weight. "Go away," she mumbles, rolling away from him while using her cloak to shield her eyes from the afternoon light.

"Feeling unwell, my love?" he asks. Oddly enough, his tone is not unendurably mocking.

"Tired, grouchy, sick," she mumbles.

"I suppose it's too much to expect you to do me the courtesy of informing me you're pregnant," he says dryly, grabbing her arm and rolling her over to face him.

She looks up at him, watching his face for any hint of feeling. She had no illusions about keeping the pregnancy a secret from him, but she didn't expect him to realize quite so soon. She hasn't even started showing yet.

"It's none of your business," she says, rolling away again.

"_You_ are my business," he says imperiously.

She grunts in disagreement but doesn't have the energy to actually argue with him. She isn't sure if it's merely a difference in pregnancies or perhaps she blocked out memories of her first trimester with the twins, but she cannot remember ever feeling so exhausted in her entire life. Simply making her way to the apartment sapped every bit of energy. Between the exhaustion and the morning sickness she isn't certain she'll make it to the birth.

He laughs again and this time there is genuine humor. "You'll live," he says dryly, obviously sensing her emotions in the Force. "You have no one to blame but yourself. I trust you know how to avoid these _inconveniences_ if you truly wished."

She wouldn't have answered him even if she possessed the energy. He's right, of course. She is quite capable of using birth control. But as he so aptly pointed out, she didn't. She could lie and pretend it is because of Bail. Her guilt over his rearing of another man's children is more than sufficient for her to attempt to present him with his own son or daughter. However, after four years of never using any contraceptives with her husband, she suspects it is never destined to happen.

And she wanted another child. Another of _his_ children. But she will die before she admits that.

"Bail wants more children," she says. It is both true and has the added bonus of reminding him of her sex life with her husband. She almost wishes she had the energy to roll over and watch the scowl on his face.

There is an ominous silence.

"And which of your lovers sired this parasite?" he finally demands.

His tone is hard, biting and she regrets her provocative comment, not least of all because he always knows when she's lying. Dammit, she's so tired. She doesn't have the energy to fight with him. She searches for a politic answer that doesn't require her to lie.

"The same one who fathered Luke and Leia," she says.

He grunts in reply and then falls silent. She has almost drifted off to sleep when his hand touches her hip. "Mine then," he says quietly, possessively.

She shivers uncontrollably and he rolls her over at the same time stretching out next to her on the bed. She curls into his much larger form, nestling her head under his chin. His arm wraps around her back, drawing her near. "You thought I didn't know?" he asks quietly.

"I didn't want to know if you knew," she answers honestly.

"Why do you think I allow Bail Organa to live?" he asks darkly. "You best pray he never succeeds in getting you pregnant."

She pulls her head back far enough to look into his eyes. "Bail is a good man," she says. "A good father."

He flinches ever so slightly at the implication that he, unlike Bail, would not be a good father. "A pity you can't bring yourself to love him," he says cruelly.

"I love Bail," she counters honestly.

"You aren't in love with him," he replies. It is not a question, but a statement of fact.

She doesn't bother to deny it. He would know she was lying. She looks away. Indeed it is a pity that Bail is such a good man and yet she cannot bring herself to fall in love with him. That sacred emotion is reserved for the vicious, possessive creature in whose grasp she rests. She blames her raging hormones for the single tear that streaks down her cheek.

He leans over her, tracing the track of her tear with his tongue. "My love," he rasps, pulling her closer. His teeth nip gently along the line of her jaw and his hand finds its way beneath her cloak to gently cup her tender breast. Her breath hisses between her teeth as she arches into his touch.

"I hate you," she says. She means it. She also means _I love you_. And he knows it.

* * *

Much later, when they are both sated and sleepy, he pulls her close yet again. As she fades into slumber, she hears him say, "Mine."

End


	3. Chapter 3

Bloodlines

Series: The Senator's Wife

by indie

Timeline: 15 years after RotS

* * *

The party is everything Leia expected it to be – which is exactly why she didn't want to come. The music is deafeningly loud. Bodies pack every millimeter of available space. Despite the fact that almost everyone present is close to Leia's age of fifteen, alcohol and other far more potent diversions are readily available.

When she gets splashed with someone else's beverage for at least the tenth time, Leia finally reaches her limit. "I'm leaving," she shouts in Jori's general direction.

He frowns at her. "Huh?" Leia is struck yet again by how handsome he is. He's somewhat on the short side, but that hardly matters. His curly dark hair and bright green eyes captivate her almost as much as his smile. And still, he isn't worth enduring this party.

Leia points to herself and then the door. She turns on her heel without waiting to see if Jori is following. She likes him but this isn't her idea of a good time. She doesn't particularly like Neesah Visht or the group of spoiled uber-rich girls with whom she surrounds herself. They've always been nice enough to Leia, but she watches them. She sees the cruelty they display to other girls who are too weak or shy or defend themselves. Leia is breaking curfew to be here with Jori and while she enjoys his company, she's not having near enough fun to offset how much trouble she will be in come morning.

Leia makes her way out of the gargantuan penthouse owned by the Visht family with Jori on her heels. Outside the main entrance is a sprawling rooftop arboretum. The party spilled outside and there is a raging bonfire ringed by several dozen inebriated teenagers.

Some of the older boys dance around the fire, showing off for the girls. One of them is obviously pretending to be the Emperor's henchman, Vader. Draped in a black cloak that obscures his face, he talks in a rasping voice. Leia considers the joke to be in particularly bad taste. One of the girls seated nearby, Inarra Deloaria is dumbstruck as she watches the display.

Over the last decade Inarra's family experienced a meteoric rise in power and wealth thanks to certain biotechnologies pioneered by Inarra's mother. It catapulted them into the stratosphere of Coruscant's social elite. However, as a counterpoint to his bookish and driven wife, Inarra's father is infamous for his overindulgence in wine and women. The man apparently ran afoul of Lord Vader at a recent Imperial dinner.

In a matter of weeks, Inarra's family was stripped of most of their status and money. Leia noticed how quickly Neesah's circle of friends cooled toward Inarra. Leia is quite shocked that Inarra is even at this party and she finds it unforgivably cruel of the boy to ridicule Inarra so openly.

Leia approaches the bonfire. Jori grabs her arm attempting to pull her back, but she shrugs him off. "Stop it!" she yells at the boy pretending to be Vader.

The boy pulls back the black hood and scowls at Leia. "What's your problem?" he demands.

Jori continues to try and pull Leia away, but she ignores him. "It's not funny," she informs the boy.

Inarra jumps to her feet, glaring at Leia. "I don't need help," she bites out. "Especially from _you_."

Leia stares at Inarra, shocked. It's true the two were never close, but Leia has no idea what she did to offend Inarra. "I was only trying to help," Leia replies, hurt.

"I don't need help from the daughter of a whore!"

Leia opens her mouth, but before she can reply, Jori succeeds in pulling her away from the bonfire and ushering her toward the turbolift. Leia lets him. She is stunned, hurt, confused. They enter the turbolift and Jori pushes the floor for the pedestrian mall. Leia stares at him blankly.

"That was really uncalled for," Jori says quietly. "Inarra shouldn't have said that. You were only trying to help."

"What was she talking about?" Leia whispers.

Jori shrugs and looks away. He finally meets Leia's gaze again and seems genuinely shocked that she is still watching him expectantly. "Are you serious?" he asks. "You really don't know?"

"Don't know what?" Leia demands, her confusion morphing into anger.

Jori opens his mouth, but doesn't speak. He's saved by the turbolift door opening and he quickly exits the lift. Leia follows him, glaring. He starts walking toward the public transport stop, ignoring Leia's pointed expression.

"You're going to tell me," Leia informs him.

Jori finally stops walking and turns to face Leia. "It's nothing," he says uncomfortably. "You know. Rumors. Bullshit."

"What rumors?" Leia asks darkly. She is quickly tiring of having to ask him time and time again.

Jori finally sighs in defeat. "Your mom," he says quietly. "But you know how it goes. People get jealous and suspicious and they make things up."

Leia ignores most of his words. "What about my mom?"

"You know," he says uncomfortably. "That she, uh, she … _you know_. It's a _rumor_, Leia. A rumor. People lie all the time. I mean it's probably not even possible. No one even knows if Vader's even human under those robes."

"Vader?" Leia repeats incredulously. Then it clicks. "Vader and _my mother?" _she yells, aghast. "That's a lie!_"_

"Hey look, I didn't make it up, okay," Jori says, backpedaling. "Besides, I thought you knew."

"_Why would I know_? It's not something I talk about around the dinner table with my mother and _my father_ and my sister and brothers."

Jori holds his hands up in surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Leia is still angry, but she forces herself to calm down. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stares at Jori. "What else do you know?

He shrugs. "I heard Inarra's dad made a pass at your mom at some Imperial dinner," he says.

"And that means my mom is having an affair _with Vader?_" Leia stammers incredulously. "It's a lie. A sad, pathetic lie. My mom and my dad have been married for years. They're very happy."

Jori doesn't look convinced, but he is far too bright to push the issue with Leia. "I didn't say it was true. I just said it's what I heard."

Huffing in irritation, she turns and stalks toward the public transport stop. This night is _so_ not worth getting grounded for.

* * *

Leia doesn't allow Jori to escort her to the door. She is far too upset and she needs some time alone. The fates must take pity on her because she is able to sneak into the apartment without running into either of her parents. Tiptoeing, she makes her way through the apartment and out onto the sprawling veranda. Curling up on one of the curved couches, she stares out at the busy night skyline.

_Vader._ Leia's mind immediately, reflexively shuns the idea. But she persists. She forces herself to think about him, to consider Inarra's cruel taunt as well as Jori's information. Vader is the boogeyman, the Emperor's terrifying beast. He's a creature and Leia knows for a fact she has never considered if he is human. She's never met him, never seen him up close. She knows his voice rasps because everyone knows his voice rasps, but she has never actually heard him with her own ears.

Her mother and Vader? The idea is so repulsive, so hurtful that she doesn't even want to think about it. Her mother loves her father. Her parents are happy.

But at the back of her mind are the niggling rumors she has ignored for years. None of them ever mentioned Vader, but she knows people have questioned her mother's devotion to her father. Leia has always shrugged it off, denying any possibility of truth.

And yet …

She looks like her mother, everyone says so and Leia would be the first to agree. But Luke … He looks nothing like their father. Where their father is tall, Luke is short. Where their father is swarthy, Luke is fair. And while it is most evident with Luke, the truth is none of the Organa children particularly resemble their father. Ten year old Annaé is tall, but willow thin with long curling golden blonde hair and eyes the same pure blue as Luke's. Ru, the youngest at eight, shows signs that he may one day be as tall as their father. His hair is the same chestnut brown as both Padmé and Leia's, but his eyes are a cool, mossy green.

It wounds Leia deeply to even consider the idea that there is any truth to the vicious rumors. How could it be true? She has fifteen years of happy memories as evidence to the contrary. Family vacations spent in Naboo's lake country, holiday mornings in front of a roaring fire in Aldera Royal Palace; there are scores upon scores of memories that attest to how happy and whole her family is.

They are wrong. All of them. Inarra. Jori. They know nothing. Leia knows her family.

* * *

Padmé is standing in the living room, looking out the window when Leia exits her bedroom early the next morning. Padmé turns, watching her daughter carefully as she sips her caf.

"Where is everyone?" Leia asks quietly.

"Your father took Ru with him to inspect Senator Mott's newest ship. Annaé is at dance class with Sheltay and Winter. Luke is still in bed."

Leia nods and sits down on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her body.

"You got in kind of late last night," Padmé says carefully.

Frowning, Leia looks at the floor. "Yeah," she mumbles. "Sorry."

"You know your father is going to stop letting Jori take you out if you can't return home at a decent hour," Padmé continues.

Leia nods. She looks out the window. She and Padmé remain silent for several long moments.

"Mom," she says quietly.

"Hmmm?"

Leia's cheeks burn with a blush and she can't bring herself to look at her mother. "Some people said some things last night at the party."

"What things?" Padmé asks, taking another sip of caf.

Emboldened, Leia meets her mother's gaze. "Do you know Lord Vader?"

Padmé goes very still. She stares at her cup of caf with inordinate interest. Slowly, she lifts it to her lips and takes another sip. "Lord Vader," she says smoothly. "I suppose I do know him. He is a fixture at most official Imperial events." She looks at her daughter carefully. "What does this have to do with your party?"

Leia nods again, inexplicably bothered by something in her mother's reaction. "Jori said a few things," Leia says, fumbling for words. "Inarra Deloaria was there –"

Padmé groans, screwing her eyes shut wearily. "Deloaria. I should have known."

"Known what?"

"There was an Imperial banquet several weeks ago," Padmé explains. "Your father and I attended. Inarra's father was drunk, belligerent. He made unwanted advances toward me and at least a half-dozen other women in attendance. He finally made the mistake of finding fault with Imperial policy very loudly at which point Lord Vader … _intervened._" She sighs heavily. "I have no doubt that Kort Deloaria is trying to find any excuse, no matter how absurd, for the Imperial retribution that followed. It is much easier to fabricate rumors than to hold one's self accountable."

Leia wants to weep with relief. Her mother's explanation makes so much sense. "I knew it couldn't be true," she says gratefully. "I knew there was no way that you and Lord Vader –" Leia shudders and falls silent. She can't even finish the sentence. "He's a monster. I don't even know if he's human."

Padmé's lips purse together tightly. "Yes," she says quietly. "It would be quite absurd."

Oddly, Leia has the sensation she upset her mother. Padmé smiles brightly, but somehow it doesn't reach her eyes.

"I should run," Padmé says. "I promised Sheltay I would meet her and the girls for breakfast."

Leia watches her mother leave the room and knows that something is very wrong.

* * *

The rest of the day passes as any other. Leia can't shake the feeling that her mother is off kilter, that something about their conversation upset her greatly. Padmé walks through the motions of everyday life, but somehow she seems muted.

That evening, Leia watches the small gestures between her parents. She notes how her mother puts her hand on her father's arm as she reads his datapad over his shoulder after dinner. She watches her father kiss her mother on the cheek before he shuts himself in his office to review official documents.

Frowning, Leia heads to her twin's bedroom. The door is slightly ajar and she finds Luke laying on his bed searching through a database of star fighters. Leaning against the doorjamb, Leia tries to ignore the deplorable state of her twin's room. He is _such_ a slob. "Dad took Ru to see Senator Mott's new ship this morning. You missed it."

Luke looks up at her. "I know," he says wistfully. "It's a new SoroSuub Personal Luxury Yacht 3000. I've been dying to get a look at one."

Leia suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Luke is failing their Literature from the Mid Rim Civilizations class because he claims he finds it too hard to keep track of details. Somehow she doubts his reasoning.

Luke continues to study his datapad, but she knows his attention is fixated on her. "What's up?" he asks casually.

Carefully, Leia chooses her steps across Luke's room. She has no desire to discover what lurks beneath the piles of clothing, books and machine parts that litter the floor. Luke reprogrammed all the cleaning droids years ago to avoid his room – she often questions the wisdom of that action.

Luke scoots over and she takes a seat on the bed next to him. Neither of them speaks, but the silence is not uncomfortable. None of Leia's friends understand the connection she shares with her brother. She and Luke are so different in both appearance and demeanor that it's easy for some people to forget they're even related, much less twins. Their interests are vastly divergent and they don't hang out in the same social circles. Yet, Leia counts Luke as her closest confidant and she knows he feels the same.

"Do you think Mom and Dad are happy?" Leia asks.

Luke switches off the datapad and rolls onto his side, looking at his sister. He contemplates the question for a moment, closing his eyes like he's listening to music no one else can hear. It used to unnerve Leia when he did things like that, but now she takes it in stride. Luke has certain abilities she doesn't want to understand.

He opens his eyes and looks at her calmly. "They're content. They love each other."

Leia bites down on her lip considering his answer.

"Why?" he asks.

Leia shrugs. "That party the other night. Some people said things."

With a grunt, Luke rolls over and picks up his discarded datapad. "Your friends suck," he says seriously.

"And your friends are all a bunch of gear heads," Leia counters.

* * *

Padmé steps out of the private fresher in her master suite the next afternoon and is startled to find Leia sitting at her vanity examining her jewelry. "You know you need to ask permission if you want to borrow something," Padmé says pointedly.

Leia nods. Her already compact form is further folded up on the small vanity bench, knees pulled up to her chest. In her hand is a glittering jeweled necklace. Leia glances over her shoulder at her mother. "Where did you get this?"

Padmé regards her daughter carefully. Leia is quite adept at political maneuvering, however, Padmé has years of experience her daughter lacks. It is quite clear to Padmé that Leia is still upset about the accusations concerning Vader. Her daughter is fishing for evidence.

"It was a gift from Dormé," Padmé explains. "As a thank you for introducing her to her exceptionally wealthy and attractive husband." She smiles wryly at her daughter.

"Oh," Leia says, resting her chin on top of her knees as she tosses the necklace carelessly on the vanity.

Crossing the room to the vanity, Padmé carefully picks through her ornately carved jewelry box. Respectfully, she removes a necklace of large silver squares. "This has been in the Organa family for generations," she explains, handing the necklace to Leia. "I'm sure your father would love to see you wear it."

Captivated by the necklace, Leia lowers her feet to the floor and straightens her spine. Lifting her heavy chestnut braid, she allows Padmé to fasten the clasp around her neck.

Padmé leans over, meeting her daughter's gaze in the mirror. "It looks beautiful on you." She presses a gentle kiss to the top of Leia's head and then watches as Leia rises to her feet and leaves the room, all the while running her fingers over the necklace.

Picking up the discarded necklace gifted to her by Dormé, Padmé returns it to its rightful place in the jewelry box. Overcome by a moment of melancholy, Padmé opens the bottom drawer on the jewelry box and releases the secret compartment. Reverently, she presses her fingertips to the carved Japor snippet on its weathered leather band. She knows better than to remove it from its secret home with Leia hovering so close.

With a sigh, she closes the compartment and shuts the drawer. "I'm sure your father would love to see you wear it," she whispers.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Leia watches as her father absently places his hand at the small of her mother's back to gently urge her out of the way so he can grab a glass out of the cabinet. It is yet another small intimacy that speak of affection, companionship and a close bond.

Bail's hand still rests in the small of Padmé's back when he turns to face his daughter. "Is there a problem, Leia? You seem distracted."

She shakes her head and quickly turns away, concentrating on the mathematics homework she neglected the previous evening. "Big test," she mumbles.

Leia doesn't see the searching look Bail gives his wife.

Padmé shrugs, turning away.

* * *

It's been nearly a week since the party, and despite Leia's watchful eye, she's found nothing to make her believe her family is anything other than happy and whole. And still… she remains unsettled.

Evening fades into night and the Organa family retires to bed. Yet, the restlessness that has plagued Leia all week makes it particularly hard for her to sleep. The snores coming from Annaé's side of the room do not help matters. Frustrated, Leia makes her way to the living room and curls up on the couch staring blindly out the window.

She sits there for an hour, maybe more. She snaps to attention as the door to her parents' bedroom hisses open. She watches as her mother glances around the living room. Mostly obscured by a blanket and pillows, Leia escapes her mother's notice. She watches as Padmé crosses the room, grabbing her cloak and heading for the door.

Burning with curiosity, Leia grabs her own cloak and follows. Padmé makes her way to the pedestrian walkway outside their apartment building and hails an air taxi. Several times, Padmé glances over her shoulder and Leia is forced to hide. Leia waits until her mother's taxi is almost out of sight and then hails her own taxi and tells the driver to follow. They leave the Ambassadorial Sector and make their way toward the exclusive Orowood District. With each passing moment, the dread in Leia's heart grows.

Leia instructs her driver to slow without letting Padmé's air taxi out of sight. Padmé's transport approaches the elite Vivendi Towers and ascends to the uppermost penthouse. Leia can see the penthouse has an expansive veranda and landing platform.

As her own taxi approaches the Towers, Leia can see the lone figure waiting on the penthouse's landing platform. She knows without a doubt it is Lord Vader. Leia watches as her mother exits the air taxi. There is no embrace, no physical intimacy that would suggest an affair. Yet her mother is visiting Lord Vader in the middle of the night at a private penthouse in the poshest private residence on the planet aside from the Imperial Palace.

* * *

He does not offer his hand and she does not ask. Wordlessly, he turns toward the penthouse's entrance. She follows.

"Your summons was unexpected," he says. "Apologies for the delay. I have been away on Imperial business."

"It's just as well. Leia should consider a career in surveillance. I haven't been able to take a step without her watching."

He waits until they are inside to speak again. Pulling back his hood, he looks at her and cannot help but smile. As much as he hungered for the young woman she used to be, he has no trouble admitting to himself that he finds the woman she is now infinitely more beguiling and engaging. Time has been generous to her, imbuing her with wisdom rather than wrinkles. She is still stunningly beautiful and his body still aches for her after all this time.

She gives him a sharp look. "You never should have attacked that idiot Deloaria."

Her topic of conversation is a more potent mood killer than a cold shower. Obviously, she did not contact him for any reason they might find mutually enjoyable. He sighs, reining in his desire for her. "Why not?"

Padmé is clearly agitated, pacing back and forth in front of him. "Leia went to a party last week where Deloaria's daughter and Leia's boyfriend both alluded to our affair."

He startles. "Leia has a boyfriend? How old is she? She's not old enough to have a boyfriend."

Padmé ignores his comments on Leia's love life. "If teenagers are discussing us at parties, it's a safe bet the Emperor knows as well."

"What's his name?" he presses.

"_Would you please focus_!" Padmé yells. "The Emperor, Anakin, dammit!"

He frowns. Padmé is right. Palpatine is a much bigger threat than Leia's boyfriend. Though he files that tidbit of information away for later. He will get to the bottom of it.

"There have been rumors for years. That's what happens," he says smugly, "when none of your children look like your husband. Why should Deloaria's comments make any difference now?"

"Oh, I don't know," she counters waspishly. "Maybe because they're _true._"

"It's been true for nearly twenty years," he says, unconcerned. "And while people may correctly assume that you regularly cuckold the Viceroy, they have little reason to assume I'm involved. As much as it wounds my pride, I suspect few truly believe I'm up to the task."

Padmé snorts at the irony. Anakin is most certainly up to the task. He's worse now than when he was a teenager. But he's right. It serves the Emperor's purposes quite well to have people view Vader as an inhuman monster.

He crosses the small space that separates them and forces her to stop pacing. Gently grasping her chin, he tilts her head toward him. "You're not here because you're worried about Palpatine," he says quietly.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. She shakes her head. "No."

"You're upset."

Nodding, Padmé pulls away and walks to the couch, falling into it heavily. "It's Leia. Or rather, all of the children."

He follows her, taking a seat at her side. "What about them?"

She laughs mirthlessly. "I thought I could do this," she says. "Can you appreciate the hubris? I thought I could lie to my husband and my children and the galaxy and no one would ever know."

"It has to be this way," he says seriously. "You know that. Palpatine is a danger to my children. It cannot be public knowledge they're mine."

"I'm not talking about the public, Anakin. I'm talking about Luke and Leia and Annaé and Ruwee having the right to know their true heritage." She looks at him, her expression softening. "They deserve to know you."

He can't meet her gaze. He pushes himself off the couch and walks to the window. "They can't. You've always known that."

"I know," she says wearily. "I'm just not sure I'm stupid enough to believe it anymore."

He turns and looks at her.

"You should have seen Leia," Padmé says softly. "She was so repulsed by the very idea of you and me together – " She stops, searching for words. "I don't expect her to like the idea. Of course the children adore Bail, of course they're loyal to him. He's the only father they've ever known and he has been so good to them, loved them so much. But the fact that Leia doesn't even know if you're human, that she can't even wrap her mind around the concept of you as a man with feelings … Anakin, that's not right."

He turns away again. The knowledge burns. His children mean more to him than anything in the galaxy and it has taken years for him to accept that the status quo must be maintained. He would love nothing more than to openly acknowledge them, but he knows that is not a possibility as long as Palpatine lives.

"They deserve to know you, Anakin," Padmé continues. "They deserve to know how much you love them, how much you've sacrificed to keep them safe."

"You're being naïve," he says bitterly. "They won't see it that way. If you step back for a moment and think about it, you'll see I'm right. All they will see is your betrayal of their father, your lies and my monstrosity." He sighs sadly. "They will not be happy to claim me. Don't do that to them."

She is silent for a long time and Anakin knows she is weeping. "I love you," she whispers at last. "I want them to be able to love you too."

"That would mean everything to me," he says honestly. "But it is not possible."

Angrily, she wipes away her tears and springs from the couch. "Something has to be done about Palpatine. We find excuse after excuse to maintain this course."

He rounds on her, equally angry. "You've seen what he's done to me. Would you have him do that to our children too?"

She stops, watching him closely. She isn't certain exactly what he means. She doesn't know if he refers to his physical injuries and the inadequate care he receives from Palpatine's physicians. Or perhaps he means the myriad mental and emotional tortures his Master employs to keep him in line. For years, she has watched the way Palpatine breaks him down a piece at a time in an attempt to keep Vader firmly under his thumb. It wounds her to watch the vicious game they play, but she feels helpless to intervene.

Regardless of his meaning, none of the options are something Padmé would wish for any of her children. "Of course not," she says. "But what if he already knows? What if he counts on our fear for the children to keep us all in line? What if he plans to tell them himself so he can use their anger to his own ends? You know how devious he is. You know how adeptly he twists the truth."

He doesn't reply because he doesn't have an answer. It's entirely possible she's right. It's entirely possible that Palpatine does know about the children and they somehow figure into his plans.

She crosses the room to him, gently placing her hand on his arm. "You're close to him," she says. "You're the one person in the galaxy who is in a position to - "

"Kill him?" he asks when she fails to finish the sentence.

"Yes," she says boldly, sticking her chin out defiantly.

He looks away with an expression close to shame. "If it were that simple, I would have done it years ago."

"You don't have to do it alone," she says, pleading. "There are people, _powerful_ people who wish to see Palpatine fall. The Alliance – "

"Padmé -"

"The Alliance has resources and dedicated – "

"Padmé!" he yells, finally succeeding in silencing her. He looks down at her, his jaw clenched tightly. "Stay away from the Alliance," he says darkly. "You and the Viceroy too."

"We have to do something," she counters. "At least the Alliance is trying to make a difference."

"And how does this end?" he demands, leaning down, his face inches from hers. "What happens when I'm forced to arrest you or the Viceroy for treason? Have you considered how that will affect the children?"

She stares up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I don't know," she admits.

His anger fades and he pulls her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I'll find a way, something, I don't know. Just don't do anything stupid."

* * *

Leia crouches on the landing platform outside the penthouse, her nose pressed against the thick transparisteel widows. There isn't much illumination. She can see two forms, but it is difficult to discern actions. The only time she can see anything clearly is when one of them paces in front of the large windows on the other side of the penthouse and is silhouetted against the skyline. As far as she can tell, they don't seem to be doing much aside from pacing around the lavish living room.

Nearly an hour later, she sees them approaching the landing platform. Reflexively, she dives behind a large crate. Peeking out, she watches the pair carefully. Vader - there's no doubt in Leia's mind as to his identity - doesn't wear his hood. Leia is shocked to find he is definitely human. Even more astonishing, he is quite handsome – and young. She has no idea what she expected Vader to look like, but it certainly isn't the tall, graceful man standing next to her mother. He turns and the light catches him just right. His hair is slightly longer than is fashionable, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck, the same honeyed color as Annaé's hair. His eyes are a bright, piercing blue. He is much younger than she expected, at least twenty, maybe thirty years younger than her father.

She watches Vader with her mother and is shocked to realize they must be close to the same age. She is struck by the realization of how much older her father is than her mother. Somehow, it never seemed odd before this moment.

They are speaking too softly for Leia to hear, but Vader says something and her mother turns to look at him. The expression on her face isn't one Leia has ever seen before. She looks … _young._ She laughs at him and gives him a bittersweet grin.

"Be careful, Ani," she hears her mother say softly.

He nods in response, but doesn't speak. The two stand on the landing platform, watching as the air taxi approaches. He helps her mother into the taxi. There is no embrace, yet the moment is so undeniably intimate Leia knows the rumors are true.

The taxi departs and Leia turns to watch Vader disappear into the penthouse. There is no ship docked on the landing platform so he must intend to take the turbolift to the building's lower levels and acquire transport from there.

Now, Leia has to figure out how she's getting home. She leans forward, resting her forehead against the crate. She's stranded on the landing platform with no way home. Short of a miracle, she won't reach home before her mother. She doesn't want to call Luke for help. Or Jori. Or Typho or anyone else she would normally call.

Grinding her teeth in irritation she rises to her feet…

… and comes face to face with Darth Vader.

Leia yelps in shock and stumbles backward. Vader reaches out, grabbing her forearm and steadying her before she lands on her backside. When she has her footing, he releases her and steps back, watching her warily.

"Princess," he says quietly. His voice is damaged and gravelly, but it's gentler than she was expecting, warmer.

He sweeps his arm to the side, motioning for her to enter the penthouse. "Allow me to escort you home."

She shakes her head. "Uh, I'm fine," she says lamely. She would cannot imagine a worse fate than being escorted anywhere by Darth Vader.

"It wasn't a request," he says firmly and Leia knows she has no choice.

* * *

The door to the apartment hisses open and Padmé's eyes go wide, accusing. She glares at Anakin unable to believe he has the audacity to knock on her door in the middle of the night. He has always been bold, but this is approaching insanity.

"You lost something," he says tightly, nudging Leia forward.

Padmé's gaze drops to her daughter and a surfeit of emotions grip her; anger, fear, embarrassment, relief. "Leia, what are you doing?" she demands, grabbing her daughter's arm and pulling her inside the apartment.

His vision fixates on Padmé, then Leia, then back to Padmé. He says nothing.

"Thank you, my lord," Padmé says formally.

With a bow, he turns and leaves. Padmé shuts the door.

"Leia," she groans wearily.

Leia turns on her mother, glaring. "Is he my father?" she demands in a whisper. The rest of the house is still asleep.

Padmé looks at her daughter and is uncharacteristically at a complete loss for words. Despite fifteen years of knowing this confrontation was not only possible, but probable, she finds herself woefully unprepared. In spite of Anakin's warnings, she somehow didn't believe that Leia would react with such anger, such betrayal. She sighs. "Bail Organa is your father," Padmé says lamely, falling back on a lifetime of excuses. "He signed your permission slip for the field trip next week. It's sitting on the counter."

"That's not what I – " Leia starts.

"I know what you mean," Padmé says, cutting across her. She cannot do this right now. "Go to bed."

"I have a right – "

"Go. To. Bed." Without watching to see if Leia heeds her orders, Padmé turns and heads for her own bedroom.

* * *

The door to the bedroom hisses shut and Bail pretends to be asleep. He glances at the bedside chrono, confirming it is indeed the middle of the night. In the dark, his lips pull into a tight frown. It has been a long time since Padmé disappeared in the dead of night. Once the children reached school age, he thinks she found it easier to sneak away during the day.

"I know you're awake," Padmé says quietly.

He rolls over and looks at her in the dim light filtering through the window.

"Leia heard rumors," she says. "At that party Jori took her to last week. Some stupid scared girl threw around some accusations she shouldn't have."

"Can I assume this is about you?" he asks, unable to completely quash the bitterness in his tone.

"And Vader," she confirms quietly.

Bail's eyebrow arches in surprise. Though he has always known, he did not realize anyone else suspects his wife's involvement with Vader. "You went to him tonight," he says. It is not a question.

"I needed to talk to him," she answers lamely. "It was stupid. Leia followed me."

Bail sits up in bed.

"It wasn't – " Padmé starts. "He and I … we just talked. He found Leia snooping around after I left. He brought her home."

Bail often tries to pity the man who used to be Anakin Skywalker. It is easier accomplished when his wife isn't standing in their bedroom in the middle of the night admitting she just saw Vader. Leaning over, Bail turns on the bedside lamp. He wearily rubs his eyes. "We knew this would happen eventually," he says.

She sits down at the foot of the bed facing the wall. "I've made such a mess of all our lives," she says quietly.

"Children are resilient," Bails replies, putting years of political knowledge into his words. He knows Padmé wants him to absolve her of her sins. The truth is he loves and accepts her, shortcomings and all. He accepts his own blame in this situation. He knew she was in love with Anakin Skywalker before he proposed. He foolishly allowed himself to believe she could love him enough to forget Skywalker. Even now, in his more self-deprecating moments, he acknowledges his wife's affair might not be such a bad thing on a galactic scope. Vader loves her, that much is evident. Vader's attachment to Padmé, to the children he fathered with her humanize him in a way nothing else could. It gives Bail hope that one day perhaps the Emperor's apprentice might overthrow his Master.

However, at the end of the day, Padmé is still _his_ wife. Despite its potential to benefit the Alliance, he will not condone her infidelity. He may be an old man, but he isn't dead yet.

But he also knows there is no benefit to anyone in her torturing herself for events she cannot change. Vader is the children's biological father. And even armed with that knowledge, Bail still loves his wife deeply. He knows she loves him in return.

"Come to bed," he says, pulling back the covers on her side. "It will wait until morning."

* * *

Leia tosses and turns for hours, unable to sleep with all the chaos in her heart and mind. She watches the sunrise and finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she wakes, it is late afternoon and she is intensely grateful there is no school today. The penthouse is deserted save her father who sits in his office reviewing a trade agreement. Leia leans against the doorjamb, watching him.

"What's troubling you?" he asks without raising his head.

Leia smiles sadly. Her father always reads her easily. Walking into his office, she perches on the corner of his desk. "I need to talk to you."

Bail switches off the datapad and leans back in his chair, regarding his daughter carefully. "About what?" Though he adores all of his children, he and Leia have always shared a particularly close bond.

Sitting there, she searches for the words. She looks up at him, her eyes shimmering with tears as her chin quivers.

"Is this about the rumors you heard?" he asks, worried.

She nods quickly. Sighing loudly, she takes a deep breath, fighting to get her emotions under control. "Are you and mom happy?"

"I love your mother very much," he says softly. "And she loves me. We both love you." He takes a deep breath, regarding his daughter carefully. "Your mother told me you followed her last night."

Leia frowns and looks away. Turning back to meet her father's gaze, she asks, "You know about last night? You know about mom and …_him?_"

Bail considers his reply carefully. Leia is young and she is his child, so the urge to protect her – even from the truth – is nearly overwhelming. But such a move could be very dangerous. Leia needs to know the truth. "Yes," he says quietly.

Leia looks at him aghast. "You know?" she demands. "You know that mom is cheating on you? That she and Vader are … are – " She can't bring herself to say the words. "You know she's a whore?"

"Enough!" Bail rises to his feet. "I understand that you are upset, but you will not speak of your mother in such a manner."

"It's the truth," Leia says insolently, but the words are half mumbled, like she can't fully commit to the deed.

"There are many truths," Bail says firmly. "The most important truth is that you and your sister and brothers are the most important things in my life and your mother's life."

Leia gapes at her father. "How can you say that? How can you say she cares about us when she can do something like this to our family?"

Bail looks at his daughter. "I do not approve of everything your mother does," he says truthfully. "But Vader cares for her, deeply. I shudder at the thought of what he would be like without that human connection."

"He's a monster," Leia says quietly, staring at the floor.

"Some think so, yes."

Leia looks up at him. "Do you?"

Bail looks at his daughter – at Vader's daughter - and forces himself to temper his words for her sake. There is no love lost between him and Vader. There have been many days – and nights – when he would have had no greater satisfaction than putting a blaster bolt in the bastard's back. But that information will not help Leia and she is Bail's priority. "Mostly I see an incredibly misguided and manipulated young man who made some tragically bad decisions."

"You knew him before he was Vader?"

Bail nods. "I did. His name was Anakin Skywalker. He was a Jedi Knight."

* * *

"Did you murder younglings?"

Vader swivels around and finds Leia standing near the shuttle's gangplank watching him.

An Imperial trooper grabs her roughly. "My lord, I don't know how she got past security."

"Release her," Vader commands. His voice is rough, harsh, nothing like it was last night when he spoke to her.

The trooper immediately releases Leia and she straightens her jacket, glaring at the man.

"Leave, soldier," Vader orders.

The busy landing platform is bustling with activity. Vader closes a good deal of the distance between himself and Leia, stopping only a few feet from her. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"No, I didn't tell _my father_ where I was going." She peers into the shadows beneath his hood looking for some reaction to her words.

He chuckles softly. "I deal with Palpatine on a daily basis, child. Your inelegant banter will do me no damage." Despite his words, the icy cold in his heart tells a different tale. "Walk with me." He turns, striding toward the Senate building.

Hands clasped behind his back, he measures his gait to accommodate Leia's much shorter stride. "How did you find me?" He shouldn't allow this contact. He knows that. But since his conversation with Padmé last night, he is acutely aware of his distance from his children. Greedily, he wants to talk to his elder daughter.

"You always attend the opening session," she replies. "Everyone knows that."

"And you came here to interrogate me about my past?"

"Yes," she answers boldly.

He glances over at her and his lips curl into a grudging smile. She's a fiery little pest. He is accustomed to seasoned generals cowering in his presence, yet this little girl feels it is well within her rights to make demands of him. "You want to know if I killed younglings," he says, rather than asks. "Yes, I did. And Padawans and Jedi Knights and many Jedi Masters."

She glowers at him and a sensation suspiciously like shame creeps into his heart.

"Why did you want to know?" he demands.

She refuses to answer his question, instead asking another. "Were you a Jedi?"

He stops walking and looks down at her. She stares back up at him undaunted. "In another lifetime," he admits.

"Anakin Skywalker?"

"That name means nothing to me," he replies coldly, turning and continuing on his way.

Leia jogs after him. "I don't like you," she snaps.

He slows his stride, allowing her to catch up. "Pity," he says. "I find myself oddly fond of you. I've murdered leaders of entire civilizations for daring to show me the slightest hint of insolence yet you seem to think you can order me around. It is quite novel."

"You're a …_ jerk_," she counters rather lamely.

He laughs in genuine amusement. "You're hardly the first to voice that sentiment." He looks over at her. "Tell me about Jori Semme."

Leia scowls. "He's my boyfriend."

"No he's not. You're too young to have a boyfriend."

"I am not," she counters testily. "I'm fifteen. My mom was younger than me when she had her first boyfriend."

"No she wasn't."

"Yes she was."

"No she wasn't."

"Yes she was," Leia says, stopping long enough to stomp her foot.

Vader turns and looks at her, unable to hide his amusement.

"She was thirteen," Leia says, crossing her arms over her chest and popping out one hip. "His name was Palo. He was an _artist_."

Vader leans in close enough that Leia can clearly see his features beneath the hood. "Your mother's first boyfriend was named Anakin Skywalker," he says firmly. Then he turns and continues walking.

Leia hurries after him, unsure of why she wants to continue the conversation. She loathes Vader. At least she thinks she does. He fully admits to being a deplorable human being. Yet, she feels compelled, driven to continue speaking with him.

"Have you considered a monastic vocation?" he asks conversationally. "There are some truly awe inspiring convents in the Mid Rim worlds."

Leia sputters in horror at the very idea. "I'm not going to be a nun," she informs him curtly. "I'm going to be a Senator. I'm going to work with the Alliance – "

She doesn't finish the sentence. Vader turns on her so quickly she doesn't even see him move. He has the front of her jacket clasped in his fist and he holds her so her toes can't touch the ground. "The words you speak are treason," he says in a biting whisper, shaking her hard for emphasis. "You could be executed simply for uttering them."

She stares up at him, willing herself not to cry. She looks into the perfect blue of his eyes. "Are you the Emperor's executioner? Will you kill me?"

Looking pained, Vader sets her gently on her feet and turns, continuing on his path inside the Senate building.

She watches as he rounds one of the giant columns and turns up a hallway before she runs after him. "You didn't answer m-"

Leia doesn't finish the thought. She is crushed against a hard chest and a cold metal blaster barrel bites into the tender flesh under her chin. Panic floods her senses and her eyes go wide. Instinctively, she claws at the hand holding her.

Several paces up the hallway, Vader spins around.

"Don't even think of going for the lightsaber," a male voice slurs.

Leia is nauseated by the stench of booze wafting from the man. He holds her so tight and so close she can barely breathe.

"Release her, _now_."

"No," the man counters, shoving the blaster barrel even harder under Leia's chin. She whimpers uncontrollably and her eyes burn with tears. The man pulls her even closer, running his stubble-roughened cheek along hers in a mockery of affection. "Heh," he laughs. "Guess I shouldn't be shocked you like 'em young. Always took you for a sick fuck. If you're already nailin' the mother, why not nail the daughter too."

Leia is released so abruptly she stumbles forward, crashing to her hands and knees. She immediately scrambles out of the way, backing herself against the wall, staring back at her attacker.

The man collapses to his knees. Forgotten, the blaster clatters loudly to the floor as he scratches his neck bloody. He makes a horrible choking noise, his eyes bulging. Time seems suspended. Leia watches him gasp futilely for air, fighting for breath he will not find. There is one final crunching noise and he crumples heavily to the ground, tongue lolling between his purple lips.

Leia's gaze snaps to Vader, watching as he slowly lowers his outstretched hand. Leia's vision immediately returns to her attacker. She's never seen anyone die, never seen a dead body. She stares at his sightless eyes, the spittle trickling out of his gaping mouth. Unable to prevent it, she heaves, vomiting on the floor.

She retches and retches until there is nothing left in her stomach. Sobbing uncontrollably, she leans against the wall for support. Vader is there, his hand on her shoulder. "Leia?"

Blindly, she turns into him, burying her face in the coarse material of his cloak. She can't seem to stop crying. She doesn't want to let go of him. Letting go of him means having to look at the man's dead body again and she doesn't think she can do that.

Vader pulls her close, holding her for several moments before he forces her to take a step back and meet his gaze beneath the hood. He looks her over and seems satisfied she wasn't physically harmed. Without a word, he tucks her against his side and ushers her down the hall.

As they turn the corner, Leia can't stop herself from looking over her shoulder one last time. The body lays exactly where it fell. As Leia watches, a group of young Senators turn the corner and gasp in horror. One of them looks up and locks eyes with Leia across the distance. It is Pooja Naberrie, the Senator from the Chommell sector. Leia's cousin.

Vader leads her around a corner into a labyrinthine series of passages.

* * *

Leia doesn't know where they are, some office within the Senate complex. Imperial guards are stationed outside the door. She sits on a nondescript chair, her mind spinning. In her hand is an untouched glass of water procured by some Imperial lackey. Across the room, Vader stares out the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He hasn't moved a muscle in at least half an hour.

"Thank you," she says, her voice scratchy from the retching and crying.

He turns, watching her. His dark hood is pulled back far enough that she can clearly see his face. His jaw is firmly set and there is some emotion in his eyes she cannot read.

"I would do far worse than rid the galaxy of that traitorous piece of filth to protect you, Princess," he says quietly.

His words are dark, the intention behind them even darker. Yet Leia finds them perversely comforting. She looks down at her hand, at the glass of water. "Are you – " she starts to ask and then falls silent. She glances at him.

He looks at her, his expression gentle. But then his vision searches the room in a gesture she takes to mean they may not be as alone as it appears.

_Yes._

His lips don't move. He didn't speak the words aloud. But she hears his voice clearly in her mind. She supposes the fact that she can hear his answer is confirmation enough of its veracity.

She gives him a watery smile, shocked to realize she is not shocked. She has known this truth for some time.

"My Lord," the Imperial trooper positioned outside the door announces, "Viceroy Organa has arrived."

Vader gives her one last look before pulling down his hood to obscure his features. "Send him in."

The door hisses open and Leia looks up at her father. He immediately crosses the room and kneels in front of her, taking her hands in his own. He turns, regarding Vader.

"Deloaria," Vader says, answering the unspoken question. "He attacked Leia."

Her father opens his mouth to say something and Vader cuts him off. "He's dead. It is regrettable that the Princess had to witness it."

Without a word, her father urges Leia to her feet. She immediately complies. As they leave, she glances over her shoulder at Lord Vader and finds him watching her.

* * *

End 


	4. Negotiations

**TITLE: Negotiations(1/1)**

**Author's Note**: This story takes place when Luke and Leia are about 7 years old. Updates to this series will continue to skip around in time giving us glimpses of the characters' lives.  
**Author's Note 2:**There is an alternate version of this story available at my personal domain.

* * *

"Are you sleeping with her?"

He turns from the datapad he is reviewing to watch Padmé walk into the living room. Her head is held high, her features taut with righteous indignation.

He takes a moment to marvel at her beauty. It has been more than half a standard year since they were last alone together. Seven months ago the tense negotiations with the Chiss pulled him to the Empire's border. Six months ago Padmé miscarried the tiny life that was their fourth child.

She isn't supposed to be here. Not tonight. Tomorrow afternoon _maybe_ her curtly worded message informed him only this morning. She has been in no hurry to see him.

But that was before this evening's Imperial dinner. He doesn't need to ask who it is to whom Padmé refers. Padmé is angry about his dinner companion. To the outward observer, Padmé spent the dinner perfectly poised and coolly controlled. But he felt her anger, buffeting against his consciousness, inescapable as Tatooine's sweltering heat. It's why he's here waiting for her in _their_ apartment rather than retiring to his personal residence. He has never been one to turn away from conflict.

"Lovely to see you, Senator," he says, rising to his feet. He uses her former title solely to court her rage. He shouldn't, especially in light of her mood, but he can't resist.

"Don't avoid the question," she counters, her voice deathly quiet, her tone icy cold. "Is she your lover?"

He looks at her, blinking slowly. "No." It's the truth. He isn't sexually involved with his beautiful young dinner companion, though not for lack of invitation.

Padmé seems only slightly mollified. She shrugs out of her heavy dark cloak, revealing the ballgown he saw earlier. It's an artful arrangement of crimson red silk that drapes her feminine curves to perfection. She is a stunningly beautiful woman and his pulse beats faster simply from looking at her.

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Kyah Hess. She's a Lieutenant in the Imperial Navy who was assigned to the Executor six months ago as my personal physician."

Gaze narrowing, Padmé stalks toward him. She is most displeased and he understands why. As his personal physician, Lieutenant Hess has the one thing that up until now, has been Padmé's alone, intimate physical knowledge of him. Of course, the situation with his physician is vastly different from his relationship with Padmé. For all of her innuendo, Lieutenant Hess is a very competent, professional physician and there has been no inappropriate contact between the two of them.

Padmé comes to a stop directly in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. "Your physician?"

"Yes."

"Since when are medical droids insufficient?"

He looks down at her, his face betraying no emotion. "Since the scars on the right side of my chest refused to heal and grew painful to the point of distraction."

Her expression immediately softens. _"Anakin,"_ she says quietly, reaching out to him.

She gently, but insistently, pulls at his cloak and overtunic. When it becomes apparent she won't be satisfied by anything short of a visual inspection, he humors her, shrugging out of his clothes until he is bare to the waist.

He doesn't look. He never looks. He has no desire to bear witness to the monstrous scars covering his chest from collarbone to navel. The damage is far more extensive on his right side, flowing down his right arm to the elbow much like the fire from which it sprang. The shiny, puckered skin continues down his torso, past his hip. The injuries consume most of his right leg until both the scars and the leg abruptly in a prosthesis above his knee. The flesh of his back and left arm is unmarred, but it is little consolation. He feels far more machine than man most days, a freakshow, an oddity.

Pressing her fingertips gingerly to his skin, she hisses through her teeth. The newest set of graphs is still raw and they probably look quite gruesome. But despite the appearance, he is far more comfortable now thanks to Lieutenant Hess's expert attention.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I had no idea."

"Why would you? We've been apart for months."

The words are spoken without rancor, but there is much left unsaid. He has been away for months and aside from a brief and agonizingly cryptic message informing him of the miscarriage, they have been out of communication. There is an unmistakable distance between them now, much more profound than the physical distance that normally separates them. He returned to Imperial Center two weeks ago and they both know they've been avoiding one another.

He stares down at this woman, the mother of his children, the woman he loves; the _only_ woman he will _ever_ love. The charade grows old for both of them. Luke and Leia have started school, Annaé is a toddler, walking and quickly learning to talk. He doesn't know his children. He will never know them. It is an impossible risk he is not willing to take.

His long months on the Imperial frontier provided ample opportunity for reflection. Padmé miscarried her third pregnancy very early. No official announcement had been made that she was expecting. He doesn't know if that makes it easier or harder. It's as if their child never existed at all. He grieved the loss of a child he would never know, at the same time grieving for the loss of Luke, Leia and Annaé. His living children are as lost to him as the tiny life.

He thinks perhaps the Force is trying to deliver a none too subtle hint.

Perhaps it is time he lets Padmé go.

He has been cursed with agonizingly long months to consider his next step. Padmé's life would be safer, _better_ without him. The same for the children. It both wounds and enrages him to contemplate living without her, to imagine her happy with the Viceroy. Yet more and more often, he does imagine such a fate.

It shames him to realize in spite of his monstrous visage, he is vain enough to require female companionship. It is a weakness, his greatest failing as both a Jedi and a Sith. He needs human attachments, human contact. He may find the strength to free Padmé, but he cannot live chastely in her absence.

He has considered the perks and pitfalls of a relationship with Lieutenant Hess. Such a relationship would be free of the constant fear of discovery. Lieutenant Hess is a creature of pure ambition. He knows she sees a connection with him as an easy ascent to Imperial heights. There is no chance his heart would be involved – much less wounded - in a relationship with the good doctor.

Such an arrangement would also have the benefit of further camouflaging his attachment to Padmé. He doesn't believe the Emperor suspects anything, but he has learned to never underestimate his master. Forming a highly visible relationship with Lieutenant Hess would divert any unwanted attention from Padmé and the children.

"Are you leaving me?" Padmé asks quietly.

He looks at her, dumbfounded.

She smiles at him softly. "You would make a very poor politician, Anakin."

He turns away, crossing his arms over his bare chest, feeling absurdly vulnerable.

"You _are_ leaving me," she says softy, shock resonating clearly in her voice.

He shakes his head sharply, still not facing her. "No," he says. "I mean, I don't know. I haven't made any decisions."

She steps closer, not touching him, but so close he can almost feel the heat from her body. He hears the threat of tears in her voice when she says, "_Your_ decision. I see." She takes a deep breath. "Do you love her?"

He laughs aloud, turning to face her. She is confused, wounded. He shakes his head, leaning in close. "No, Senator," he says softly, vehemently. "I do not love her."

Her brow furrows and her pain gives way to irritation. "I don't understand you."

He shrugs, staring blindly out the window. Padmé isn't the only one confused by this troublesome new territory. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in months. The lone lamp sitting on his elegantly stylized desk provides enough light that when he looks at the darkened window, he doesn't see the skyline, but the room's reflection. Padmé stands behind him, staring at his back. He can see the heartbreak etched on her features.

He takes a deep breath and releases it. "I am thirty standard years in age."

She blinks at him. "I already knew that."

He turns, frowning at her. He has no idea how to articulate the churning mass of emotions in his heart and mind. What galls him the most is that in the last few months he has come to truly appreciate some of the lessons Obi-Wan so laboriously (and fruitlessly) tried to teach him. Sometimes, it is necessary to deny one's self the object of one's desires. There _can_ be danger in attachment.

He is not a big enough hypocrite to delude himself into believing he has found the strength and maturity to stop loving Padmé, but perhaps he no longer needs to keep her chained to him. He grieves the loss of the boldness he felt when pursuing Padmé after the battle of Geonosis. He was so self-assured, so absolutely convinced they belonged together. He believed they could beat the odds, that it was worth any price to be together. These days he is convinced he was an absurdly naïve child who carelessly endangered both their futures and the futures of their children.

"I'm not … a boy anymore," he says, feeling intensely lame.

"Well, that _is_ a relief," she replies sarcastically.

His frown turns even more sour. "I'm trying to truly be a man. I'm trying to do what's best."

"And leaving me is for the best?" she demands. "Leaving our children?"

He flinches as if she struck him, his pride grievously wounded. "I can't leave_our_ children," he snaps bitterly. "They've never truly been mine." He looks out the window and then back to her. "I'm an orphan," he snarls. "Alone. The _only_ Skywalker. Can you even begin to appreciate how difficult it is for me to know my children, my flesh and blood are so close? Everyone remarks on how much Leia looks like you, but when I see her, I see my mother. It's almost painful to look at her. Everyone tries to figure out who Annaé resembles. She resembles _me_!" He stops for a moment, raking his hand through his hair in frustration. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives Padmé a sharp look. "Luke is my only son. Do you want to imagine how many times I have fantasized about helping him build a light saber or learn to fly a speeder?" His words trail off the longer he talks, his rage replaced by frustration and sadness.

She watches him carefully, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes.

He looks away, not wanting to see her pain. He doesn't want to feel as sorry for her as he feels for himself. He wants to lash out at someone. He starts to pace the living room, his anger simmering again. "What about you?" he demands. "What about your husband? You accuse me of infidelity while you return to his bed every night. Is that what you want? Me alone, chastely pining away for you while you and the Viceroy live a model life with _my_ children?"

"I would never wish for you to be lonely, Anakin," she whispers.

Listening to her soft words, he regrets his accusations. Padmé is many things, but cruel is not among them. She would never wish to torture him. He kept these emotions secret from her for a very long time. He didn't want to upset her. He didn't want to admit how agonizingly isolated he feels.

He closes the distance between them, pulling her close, cupping her cheek in his hand. "Padmé."

"Lieutenant Hess is very beautiful," Padmé grudgingly admits, unable to keep the jealousy from tainting her words. "And blonde." She pulls away, putting several steps between them. She doesn't go far. "And young." She turns to face him. "I'm sure she could give you children."

The desire to smash his fist through the wall in frustration is nearly overwhelming.

"I don't want more children," he says tightly.

Too late, he realizes the folly of his words. But she has already looked away, a tear streaking down her cheek.

He goes to her, turning her toward him, though she still refuses to meet his gaze. "I love the children," he says. "I want them. I wanted the baby we lost." She finally looks up at him. "I have absolutely no intention of having a family with Lieutenant Hess or anyone else."

She pulls away from him. Her arms are wrapped protectively around her body. "Of course not," she says quickly. "I know you wouldn't. The Emperor would be as much of a threat to your children with another woman as he is to our children."

He watches her carefully. "That's true. But it's not why I wouldn't do it."

She looks at him skeptically. "You'd rather chastely pine for me?"

He doesn't react to her throwing his words back at him. He expected as much when he said them. He suspects her long years in politics make it more habit than any true desire to wound him. "I love you. _You_ are the mother of my children."

She sniffles, looking away. "But you're leaving me."

"I didn't say that," he corrects.

"But you're considering it."

He nods, looking down at his hands, one flesh, one artificial. Why she would want him baffles him. She is supposed to be the reasonable one, the voice of maturity and duty. Only now is he realizing perhaps he has forced her too far. Perhaps it is now incumbent upon _him_ to make the difficult decisions.

He clenches both fists. "I am considering it."

She is quiet a long time, staring blindly at the expensive painting decorating the living room wall. He didn't pick it out. It came with the apartment. He doubts Padmé has ever given it a moment's notice. And he doubts she truly sees it now.

"Is it because of the baby?" she asks quietly. "Is that why you're leaving?"

He can't prevent the wave of pain and shame that washes over him. Before he can school his features into a mask of indifference, she turns.

"I see," she says, her voice a trembling whisper. She takes a deep breath, looking away. "I'm sorry, Anakin."

"See what?"

She gives him a wry, watery smile. "It was my fault."

He stares at her, dumbstruck. "Your fault?"

She nods, looking away. "Women weren't made to have children forever. The doctor warned me that my age could be a factor. Birth defects and miscarriage are more common as maternal age increases."

He is silent so long, Padmé finally turns to look at him and finds him gaping at her. "What?"

"I'm barely _human_ and you think it's your fault?" he demands incredulously. "It's not you, Padmé, it's _me_."

She stares at him, truly confused. "What do you mean you're barely human? Of course you're human. How could you think otherwise?"

He gestures impatiently to the scars covering most of his visible skin.

"You were _injured_, Anakin. You're talking like you think you're Grievous."

He can't look at her.

"_Anakin_." She closes the distance between them, placing her palm against his cheek and forcing him to meet her gaze. "You're a man, Anakin, not a monster."

He stares at her mutely. His gaze drops to his chest, to the raw, angry scars that comprise his flesh. He hold up his prosthetic arm, flexing his mechanical hand. "Really?"

Padmé looks at him for a moment and then lowers her eyes. "Lieutenant Hess obviously finds you attractive."

"Kyah Hess is opportunistic. I could be a Hutt and she'd still proposition me."

Padmé frowns at him, irritated her attempt at appealing to his vanity failed so spectacularly. "What about me?" she demands. "If Lt. Hess is mercenary, what does that make me? I jeopardize my marriage to be with you. I'm the mother of your children. If you think so little of yourself, what must you think of me?"

He studies her silently. "I think you're an angel," he answers honestly.

She rolls her eyes. "And I think you're being maudlin and overly dramatic. You're a man, Anakin. Nothing more, nothing less. And I continue our relationship because I love you and I am attracted to you." Her expression turns bitterly wry and she adds, "And quite possibly because I've gone completely mad."

He looks away, frowning sourly. She is right, of course, he is human. And he is being overly maudlin and dramatic. But he cannot deny there are days when he feels decidedly _in_human, removed from the entire species, set aside like some piecemeal monster of Palpatine's creation. It is a sentiment he knows his master does everything to encourage. Palpatine wants him set apart from humanity. He wants, no _needs_ him to be feared throughout the galaxy.

Yet despite how fearsome he may seem to the majority of the galaxy's inhabitants, he finds himself more fearful by the day. Every day Luke, Leia and Annaé grow stronger. He watches them from a distance and he can feel them shining in the Force like impossibly small but bright beacons in a sea of darkness. He hopes beyond hope it is his connection to them, his affinity for them that makes it seem this way. He prays the Emperor has not noticed them.

"I want you to take the children and go to Alderaan," he finally says.

Her brow furrows. "No."

He looks at her, his features tightening. "It's dangerous to keep the children in such close proximity to the Emperor, especially when I'm on the other side of the galaxy. I would be unable to protect them."

"I can protect them," she says with determination.

One eyebrow arches in disbelief. "Palpatine destroyed the entire Jedi Order. One former Senator will not stand in his way."

Her cheeks flame with insult, but they both know he's right.

"They are the legally recognized children of an Imperial Senator," she says. "Palpatine needs the Senate. He can't simply abscond with people's children. There are limits."

He stares at her for a moment, knowing they are both thinking the same thing, Palpatine has no limits. He shakes his head. "You _have_ to go."

She crosses her arms over her chest, defiantly meeting his gaze. "I won't run."

"It's not about you. It's about keeping the children safe."

He can see her jaw muscles clench. "That's not fair," she hisses quietly.

His lips purse together in a bitter smile. How many times did he utter those exact words to Obi-Wan? Older now, wiser and disillusioned, he knows the truth. "Life isn't fair."

She looks away for a moment and then back to him. "I love our children and I would do anything to protect them, but I will not hide us away on Alderaan. And I don't appreciate you trying to use them to manipulate me."

"I'm trying to keep all of you safe."

"If Palpatine truly suspects something, it won't matter where we hide. It's safer to maintain a high public profile. Palpatine is evil, but he's not stupid."

"He's the Emperor. He'll do anything he damn well pleases."

She shakes her head. "No he won't. Despite the propaganda the Empire churns out, his control is not absolute. He needs you. He needs the Senate. Maintaining control is always harder than winning it in the first place."

He turns away. As much as it pains him to admit, she has a point.

"This is all a ruse. You're trying to end our relationship on _your_ terms," she accuses, her voice tightly measured. "The children and I aren't available at your convenience, Anakin."

He rounds on her quickly, snapping, "Nothing about this relationship has ever been convenient."

Her eyes narrow as she watches him. Slowly, she crosses the distance that separates them. He watches as she lightly traces one perfectly manicured fingernail up the length of his unmarred left arm. "You are as much mine as I am yours," she says quietly. "And I will not give you up to some blonde bimbo with a medical degree and a military rank."

He knows it's dangerous and stupid, but a tendril of dark pleasure curls in the pit of his stomach at her jealous, possessive words. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, with a fiery passion and intellect to match. Inexplicably, she wants him.

She steps closer, her silk-draped body barely brushing against his naked chest. Her fingertips skim over his skin, coming to rest at the waistband of his pants, tickling the unmarred flesh. She lowers her head for several moments and then looks up at him from beneath her dark lashes. She sways back and forth slightly, biting down on her bottom lip. "What's she like?" she asks in a bare whisper.

"Who?" he asks dumbly, every bit of his attention focused on Padmé.

She gives him a sultry, satisfied smile. "Your young Lieutenant."

He shakes his head slightly, trying to focus on what she's asking. Impatiently, he frowns. "I don't know." He doesn't want to think about Kyah Hess. He wants to think about Padmé. And touch Padmé. And taste Padmé. And have Padmé. Of its own volition, one of his hands traces the bare flesh of the delicate shoulder artfully revealed by her ballgown.

"Is her skin soft?"

He leans in closer, dipping his head to skim his lips along the column of her neck. Her skin is warm and fragrant, subtly perfumed with the scent of ladalum blossoms. "I don't know," he answers distractedly, "I never touched her." His hand finds Padmé's hip, pulling her flush against his body while he nips along her neck and jaw. She lifts her hand, threading it through his hair, pulling his lips to her own.

Their tongues tangle wetly and he groans, knowing any plan he had to end things with Padmé is as good as dead. He isn't strong enough to fight this war – and he isn't certain he ever truly wanted to win at all. He quickly cedes total victory to Padmé, pulling her even closer. His fingers find the clasps at the back of her dress, nimbly releasing them until the lavish gown is nothing more than a pile of silk pooling around her feet.

His pulse quickens as he realizes she wore nothing beneath her gown. He watched her so intently during the dinner that he knew for certain she was wearing undergarments. The thought of her calculatedly removing them in the shuttle on her way to the apartment spurs his hunger to a fever pitch. He kisses her deeply, running his hands over her naked flesh, languishing in the feel of her skin against his own. The sensations aren't the same as before his injuries. Too many of his nerve endings have been irreparably damaged. But his eyes still function perfectly and the sight of her creamy pale, flawless skin pressed oh so willingly against his own marred flesh is a potent aphrodisiac. In this capacity, at least, he is still completely whole, completely virile.

"_Ani_," she begs, fighting to get impossibly closer.

* * *

Later, he takes the several steps to retrieve his discarded tunic, placing the coarse, dark material around her bare shoulders before re-fastening his trousers.

She folds her knees up to her chest as she perches on the edge of the desk, pulling his tunic tighter around her body until she is completely covered. One of her hands fists in the fabric and she pulls it closer to her face, inhaling the scent. She looks up and realizes he's watching her. Caught in the act, she smiles a small, self-conscious smile. "It smells like you," she says quietly.

He snorts. "I'd wager you do too at this point," he says sourly.

She frowns. "Just enjoy the moment."

"This is _lunacy_," he snaps, pacing in a tight circle. With the heat of passion gone and the afterglow quickly fading, he is once again assaulted with the reality of just how ill-conceived his actions have been. _Again_. He stops pacing and looks at her. "What if you get pregnant?"

"Pregnant?" she repeats sarcastically. "I don't see how that could happen. I'm too old and you're not even human."

"_Padmé._"

She rolls her eyes, hopping off the desk and crossing the room to stare out the panoramic windows. She stands there for several long minutes. "I want another child."

He groans, coming to stand at her side. "It's too dangerous."

She looks up at him, her features pinched with irritation. "You and I," she says impatiently, motioning with her hand between their two bodies, "will _always_ be dangerous. First you were a Jedi and I was a Senator. Now I'm married and you're Palpatine's apprentice. Anakin, it's doomed, but it is our life. The only chance we get. I love you and I love the baby we lost and I want to have another child before it's no longer an option."

He looks down at her, silence hanging between them. With a sigh, he looks away.

"I do too," he says quietly. It shames him to admit it, but it's true. He does want another child. Not to replace the baby they lost. Nothing can ever replace that baby. He wants another child because he loves Padmé and he knows no greater joy in his miserable excuse for a life than seeing her with their children. He knows it's a bad idea, but it seems like his entire life has been one bad idea after another and considering how he just spent the last hour, it occurs to him that perhaps the bad ideas occasionally to lead to good outcomes.

He sighs, reaching out for Padmé's hand and she eagerly twines her fingers through his, allowing him to pull her close. Palpatine is still a threat. He will always be a threat and there is no doubt that grave consequences are inevitable. But it won't happen today. Or tomorrow. And allowing the fear of what Palpatine might do dictate their actions feels too much like the Emperor has already won.

He places a gentle kiss on the top of Padmé's head.

"How long will you be on Coruscant?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Until the Emperor devises another test for me."

Her hand rests on his chest, over his heart. The skin beneath her fingertips is uneven and discolored. "What happened with the Chiss?"

"Everything turned out to the Empire's advantage."

"That's not what I asked."

He looks down at her. "I know."

She frowns, knowing he won't elaborate. She also knows the reality of what happened to him along the Chiss border is probably far worse than she can even imagine. "If you won't tell me, then at least do me a favor."

"What?"

"Give your talented young lieutenant a promotion and send her on her way."

The smile slowly spreads across his face. "I believe Captain Hess will be a valuable asset to Admiral Ozzel's command."

* * *

[end section 


	5. Patient History

**TITLE: Patient History (1/1)**  
**CHARACTERS:** Darth Vader, Dr. Kyah Hess  
**TIMELINE:** Set the morning directly following Negotiations  
**SUMMARY:** Lord Vader has a discussion with his personal physician.

* * *

Lieutenant Kyah Hess studies the datapad as she enters the private examination room. She does this because it affords her the opportunity to not immediately acknowledge her patient. In truth, she reviewed the test results hours ago. But the datapad provides cover. She can pretend her full attention isn't absolutely fixated on him. She doesn't like any man – not even Lord Vader – to think he can ever command her full attention. The secret to keeping a man interested is to always remain a bit beyond his reach. Especially given Lord Vader's unannounced arrival this morning, she doesn't want to appear too available.

It's a ruse, of course. Given the subtlest invitation, she would gladly warm Lord Vader's bed. As a military surgeon, she has seen no end of physical horrors. In truth, she finds his imperfections appealing in their own twisted way. They make him attainable. It helps that not many women are as enlightened as she. While females are undoubtedly drawn to his power and presence, she doubts many women are willing to risk peeking beneath his zeyd cloth robes.

Lord Vader is a powerful, intimidating man. Yet she perceives a vulnerability within him that has nothing to do with his physical frailties. He doesn't confide in her. Point of fact, he rarely speaks and certainly is not one to make polite conversation. But she clearly senses his loneliness. Given how he refuses to look at his own wounds, she knows he is self-conscious. It's entirely possible he doesn't believe any woman is capable of physically desiring him.

But she wants him. She longs to run her hands over his body, not as a surgeon, but as his lover. She longs to set aside the necessary professionalism and show him just how desirable she finds him, just how powerful he truly is. There will be plenty of time for that. She received word today that the _Executor_ will be stationed at Imperial Center indefinitely. Without the Chiss hovering in the periphery, perhaps she will be able to teach Lord Vader what a truly valuable asset she is to the Empire.

"My Lord," she says, looking up from the datapad with a sultry smile. "Your test results are precisely on target. Better than I hoped for, in fact. But I didn't realize you would be dropping by this morning."

"I didn't come here for a progress report," he says. "I want to speak with you privately."

Her smile broadens, but his face remains passive. She continues to look at him and he eventually turns away uncomfortably.

"Your service record is exemplary," he says, staring at the medical degrees prominently displayed on the wall.

"Thank you, my Lord," she says, feigning humility. Of course her record is exemplary. She has worked hard for everything she has.

He turns back to her, looking her directly in the eyes. "It won't be official until tomorrow, but you are being promoted to the rank of Captain."

"Captain?" she says happily. She knew that a close association with Lord Vader would help her career, but she had no idea it would happen so quickly.

"Yes," he confirms. "And a new position has just opened up as Chief Medical Officer of the _Reprisal_."

Her smile falters. "The _Reprisal_," she says. "That's Ozzel's ship."

He clasps his hands behind his back. "Yes."

She takes a moment to try and comprehend what is transpiring. "I'm being promoted," she says.

He nods.

"And moved halfway across the galaxy."

"The _Reprisal_ is stationed in the Selsha Sector," he confirms.

She stares at him for a moment and then another. How did she misplay this situation so disastrously? The promotion is definitely cause for celebration, as is finally being given the title of Chief Medical Officer. But being stationed in the Selsha Sector with _Ozzel_ of all people is certainly neither expected nor desired.

She tries to regroup. He said the promotion wouldn't be effective until tomorrow. Perhaps there is still time. She certainly won't turn down the promotion, but perhaps her post is negotiable.

She purses her lips seductively and looks up at him. "Who will be your new personal physician?" she asks coyly. "I will need to make certain all of the appropriate records are transferred."

"That won't be necessary," he says. "Thanks to your expert care, medical droids should now be more than sufficient."

She tsks gently. "Droids aren't a substitute for a competent physician. Your case is complex."

"I am no different from the thousands of other soldiers wounded in battle."

"Hardly, my Lord," she counters. "You are one of the Empire's most valuable assets."

He looks at her, smiling mirthlessly. There is a hard edge to his expression. A knowing look that informs her she isn't the only one who has been playing coy. It appears he grasped far more of her intentions than she realized. "This is not open for discussion, _Doctor_."

She stares at him, confused. There is an odd playfulness in his tone that undercuts his words. Perhaps they both feel a rush from finally (somewhat) openly acknowledging the mutual attraction that has always simmered just below the surface of their interactions.

"Then I ask you a personal favor, My Lord. As a parting gift."

He looks at her both shocked and amused by her audacity. "What, Captain Hess?"

"I would like to examine your grafts," she says. "I simply would not feel comfortable turning you over to medical droids without a final examination."

Her request has the opposite effect she intended. She can almost feel him pull away from her. Though he doesn't move, he visibly retreats. "That won't be necessary."

Left with no other options, she pushes harder, rushing the words, "I insist, my Lord."

He looks at her and if she didn't know better, she would swear there was a slight blush to his cheeks. "As you wish, Doctor."

She swallows thickly feeling suddenly awkward. While she has no compunction about leveraging every one of her assets to her best advantage, up until now, that has consisted of innuendo and flirtation. She has never before actually attempted to seduce either a superior officer or a patient. She finds it to be startlingly uncomfortable territory. Self-consciously, she clears her throat. "If you would remove your cloak and shirts," she says, mortified to feel her own cheeks burning with a blush.

There is a decidedly discomfiting awareness between the two of them as he shrugs out of his cloak. She can feel her pulse beat faster as his hands grasp first his tunic and then his under tunic, pulling them over his head. Bare to the waist, he turns to face her, his eyes a darker blue than she ever thought possible.

She forces her attention away from his face, retreating behind her medical training. She is beginning to suspect there is far more of her heart involved in her association with Lord Vader than she ever dared consider. She makes herself assess him not as a man, but as a patient. After years of practice, it is quite easy.

The grafts are healing well. She was hopeful before the surgery that she could provide him with a great deal of pain relief. But even she is shocked at just how superbly he healed. She has no idea why his previous doctors weren't able to do more.

And then as suddenly as it began, the examination is over. And she is no longer a doctor, but a woman, standing very close to a half-naked man. She swallows thickly again and is about to speak when something catches her eye. Without thinking, she reaches out and grasps his left arm, studying it closely. She runs her hands lightly over the abrasions on his forearms. Her fingers trail upwards, finding more abrasions on his bicep. She automatically grasps the other arm, finding matching abrasions on the flesh of his right bicep.

She frowns up at him. "What happened?" she demands, not waiting for him to answer as she continues her inspection. She walks around him and gasps aloud at the network of abrasions on his back. Again, she traces them with her fingertips. "What did this? It looks almost like …"

Her voice trails off and she drops her arms, feeling as if she has just been doused with a bucket of ice cold water. "Scratches," she finishes.

Hands firmly at her side, she retraces her steps until she is once again standing directly in front of him.

He meets her gaze unabashed, no doubt feeling smug. She wrongly assumed his injuries – and his loathing toward them - precluded him from having a physical relationship with a woman. Obviously, that is not the case.

"They will heal," he says.

She nods, smiling in perverse amusement at the absurdity of situation. "Indeed." She cannot believe she misread him so profoundly. He may have been lonely stationed on the _Executor_ along the Chiss border, but he obviously isn't unaccustomed to female attention.

Yet, she refuses to deny the attraction she knows is mutual. "Is this why I'm being promoted?" she asks brazenly.

His face is perfectly impassive for a moment as he studies her. "You are a gifted surgeon. You would have been promoted regardless."

"But this is why it's happening _now_," she presses. "This is why I'm being moved to the Selsha Sector."

"Yes," he finally admits.

"Is she worth it?" she dares to ask.

His smile is answer enough. "Good luck, doctor."

[End Section


	6. Small Mercies

**TITLE: Small Mercies(1/1)  
SERIES: The Senator's Wife  
CHARACTERS: Vader, Luke, Leia  
TIMELINE: Set 2 months after RotS.  
SUMMARY: Lord Vader has unfinished business at 500 Republica.  
NOTE: unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.**

* * *

It is revoltingly easy to enter the supposedly secure apartment at 500 Republica. The small penthouse was originally appointed for use by the Senator from the Chommell sector, but recently ownership was transferred to the Senator from the Alderaan sector. He guesses Padmé has Bail Organa so wrapped around her finger that he moved into her apartment. Or maybe Organa wanted to get away from the memory of his dead wife. Or maybe the move was the price Padmé negotiated for abandoning a life supposedly pledged to helping others.

It disgusts Lord Vader to his core. How many times did he listen to Padmé speak with such passion about the rights of others, about her duty as a public servant. Lies. All of it lies. And like so many of her other lies, the naïve, lovesick boy he had once been believed them all. Luckily Darth Vader shares none of Anakin Skywalker's weaknesses. None of his sentimentality. None of his love.

Darth Vader loves no one.

The apartment changed since he was last here. The fastidious tidiness has been replaced by a sort of homely chaos. There is a decidedly lived-in feel to the space that wasn't here previously. Maybe this is what it means to have a family.

Vader's stomach roils and he pushes away the sentimental thoughts, venturing closer to the apartment's master suite. Lying, venomous witch. He did it for her. _All_ of it for her. And how does she repay him? With gratitude? With affection? No. With betrayal. Lies. Deceit.

As an exercise in mental torture, he often contemplates how long Padmé was sleeping with Organa before she decided to marry him. Did Padmé's heart always belong to Organa? Did she think of Organa while Anakin Skywalker made love to her? His mind reflexively shies from the very idea, but perversely, he forces himself to consider it more closely, relishing the pain and rage it brings. Anger is power. His Master has taught him that lesson well. Did Organa know about Padmé and Skywalker? Did Padmé and Organa laugh at him behind his back? Was Anakin Skywalker's absolute devotion a source of _amusement _to them?

They may have laughed at Anakin Skywalker, but they will not laugh at Darth Vader.

He stands in the open doorway to the master suite, watching the Organas sleep. He allows himself to notice certain things, the fact that they obviously share a bed, the ridiculously expensive ring on Padmé's left ring finger, the way Organa's hand rests lightly on Padmé's hip.

What he doesn't allow himself to notice is how painfully thin Padmé looks, how drawn and tired. He doesn't notice that Padmé sleeps with her back to her husband, curled tightly into a little ball. And he certainly doesn't notice the Japor wood rune Padmé wears around her right wrist. He ignores these thing. Because these realizations will not fuel his rage. And right now, what Lord Vader needs most is rage. Blinding rage.

With preternatural silence, he crosses the bedroom and enters the suite's smaller room. When he was here last, it was Padmé's private study. Now, as he anticipated, it is the nursery. He is shocked there is only one crib. He knows Padmé bore twins, the announcement was all over Holonet. But, he reasons, they must still be very small. They probably share a crib. He approaches slowly, clinging to his rage. These children are the undeniable proof of Padmé's duplicity, of her betrayal. She allowed – even _encouraged_ - the ridiculously misguided Skywalker to love her. All the while her heart really belonged to Organa.

The existence of these children are an insult to him, a bitter wound that eats at him. Lord Vader should have no such wound, no such weakness. This is the final remnant of Anakin Skywalker and it must be dealt with. Lord Vader can allow no one and nothing to have this much sway over him. Padmé must be punished. Since he saw her two days ago following the Imperial parade, he has thought of little else. She had the audacity to address him by his former name, to speak to him as if she mourned Anakin Skywalker's death – all the while she warmed Organa's bed, cared for Organa's children. Such an egregious lack of respect will not go unpunished.

He's done this before. He can do this again. He was the one who dispatched the younglings at the Temple, not the clone troopers. He avoids remembering he forbade the clones to touch the younglings, reasoning that a proud, quick, painless death by his blade was far preferable to a blaster bolt from a clone. He has murdered children. He has murdered _his own kind_. He can do this. He has to do this.

He steps closer and pulls back his hood, peering inside the crib. The lightsaber is in his hand.

He startles as two sets of eyes blink up at him.

They're just … laying there, watching him with huge, round eyes.

They stare at each other for what must be minutes.

He has cared for children before – the dreaded duty in the Temple's crèche. But never ones so young as these two. He knows their names are Luke and Leia. Holonet wouldn't shut up about that. One is dark, like Padmé, the other fair. He doesn't know which is which. It's impossible to distinguish girls from boys at this age, swaddled in diapers. And they are both dressed in little white outfits.

Lord Vader sighs inwardly with disgust.

He can't do this.

He hates himself for the weakness, but it's undeniable. He can't murder these children regardless of the fact that their mother is a lying whore.

He clips the lightsaber back on his belt and pulls up his hood, turning to leave. One of them – the fair-haired one – kicks its legs and squawks. Vader instantly spins around, reflexively shushing the child. As soon as their eyes meet, the baby settles. Then it gives him a big, toothless, slobbery grin. Maybe it has gas.

Then it kicks its legs again and pounds its little fists. The dark haired one looks over at the fair-haired one and kicks its legs too. Vader knows they're going to start screaming at any second. He leans over the crib and shushes them again. Without thinking about it, he reaches into the crib, the fingers of his left hand splayed in a universal sign for the anklebiters to stop what they're doing and be quiet.

In unison, the babies reach out, the dark haired one grabbing his ring finger, the fair-haired one grabbing his thumb. He wears no gloves and the skin to skin contact almost crumples him to his knees. He's unable to breathe, staring blindly at the babies, looking from one to the other. The babies quiet, staring at him again, eyes wide.

His children.

These are _his_ children.

Not Bail Organa's.

Impulsively, he picks them up. First the fair-haired one, then the dark one. Luke, and then Leia. He can tell now, which one is which. His son. And his daughter. He cuddles them close, trying to make sure he doesn't drop them, but also not holding them too tightly. How do people do this? They're these amorphous little blobs of humanity with barely enough muscle control to hold up their heads. How can Padmé and Bail just leave them in here like this? Artoo at least should be guarding them. Any madman could just walk in here and hurt them.

Leia reaches out and her tiny hand lands on his chin. He turns and looks at her, their faces a breath apart. She stares up at him with perfect trust. Skywalkers. There are two more Skywalkers in the galaxy. He isn't the only one. He isn't alone. His blood – his mother's blood – flows in their veins. He moves his head and places a kiss to the center of her little palm. Leia squawks in delight, kicking her feet madly and laughing. He tries to shush her, but soon Luke is doing it too. He hears someone stirring in the next room and has barely enough time to settle the twins back in the crib and sink into the shadows near the door before Padmé walks into the room.

Now, he can't help but notice how terrible she looks. She is painfully thin. No, gaunt. The dark hollows under her eyes disturb him greatly. Apparently her blissful married life with Bail is a sham. She doesn't look blissful. She looks like she's barely hanging on.

She walks to the crib and leans over the side, clicking her tongue at the babies. "Hello," she coos brightly, smiling at them. She picks up Leia first and puts her in a little robotic bouncing chair which Leia apparently likes because she immediately quiets. Then Padmé returns for Luke, lifting him out of the crib and cradling him close. She presses a gentle kiss to he top of his head and breathes deeply. "My little sky walker," she whispers.

Sniffling, she crosses the room to take a seat in a rocking chair. He can see the tear tracks glinting on her cheeks. Silently, he backs out of the room and then flees the apartment as quickly as possible.

[End section


	7. Old New Borrowed Blue

**TITLE:Old New Borrowed Blue**

**SERIES:** The Senator's Wife

**PAIRING: **Padmé/Vader, Padmé/Bail

**TIMELINE:** Five months after the end of RotS. Two months after "Small Mercies"

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: ** This update has been significantly edited to meet posting guideline. The unedited version is available at my personal site.

* * *

His hand plays lightly across her back, his warmth sinking easily through the thin material of her nightgown. She lays there, perfectly still, allowing him to touch her. She takes a deep breath, willing herself to calm. He rubs her shoulder lightly, then the exposed flesh of her neck.

It's too much. It's all too much. She sits up in bed, curling herself into a little ball, resting her forehead against her knees.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I'm sorry."

He sighs and sits up in bed as well, turning on the bedside lamp. "It's okay, Padmé. We don't have to."

She looks up at him, mindless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. "I want to," she insists. "I want to be a real wife to you."

"It's okay," he says again, though the defeat in his voice is clear. And she doesn't blame him. How could she? He deserves more than this. But despite her desire to be a good wife, she simply can't.

"You need to speak to a physician," he says gently.

Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she shakes her head. "No. I'm fine. I'll get past this. I just need time."

"I'm not talking about the sex, Padmé," he presses. "I'm talking about your life. Depression after childbirth can be very dangerous. You need help."

"I don't need help. I have Sheltay."

"You know I don't mean help with the babies," he replies. "Though you do need help. You turn Sheltay away as often as you can. You're not sleeping. You're not eating."

"I'm fine," she says with finality.

He sighs and then sinks back down in the bed and turns off the light. In the dark, she gets out of bed and makes her way into the twins' room to watch them sleep. She curls into the rocking chair in the nursery. Bail is right, of course. She isn't eating or sleeping. She feels awful. But a trip to the doctor isn't going to fix that. While Padmé doesn't doubt that the hormonal changes following the twins' birth are wreaking havoc with her body chemistry, that isn't why she's depressed.

She's mourning. She has been mourning for the last five months.

But now, she's not certain if she's mourning the death of Anakin Skywalker or the life of Darth Vader. She sobs quietly, biting down on her hand to stifle the noise. She remembers her prayers in those dark hours and days after it was announced the Jedi were traitors and would all be hunted down and killed. She remembers her offers to any power that would listen. She would do anything, _anything_ to spare Anakin's life.

She never dreamed how painful it could be to have her wish granted.

Vader is equally abhorred and feared throughout the galaxy. Murderer of children, exterminator of the Jedi. He is the symbol of Imperial power and fear. A month ago, he tracked Fang Zar, a trusted political ally, to Alderaan and murdered him in cold blood. Like any sane person, she hates and fears Vader.

But the most shameful thing is that every day, she thanks the heavens he is alive.

* * *

"Ma'am! Ma'am!"

Padmé turns around and has to look sharply down to meet the young boy's gaze. He is urgently trying to press a piece of flimsiplast into her hand. Before she can ask any questions or even refuse, the boy is gone and she is left holding the flimsi.

Padmé glances around the busy open-air market, searching for Vader. She can't find him, but she can almost feel him watching her. Thankfully, Sheltay doesn't seem to have noticed the commotion. She is inspecting fresh fruit with Luke perched gregariously on her hip. In Padmé's own grasp, Leia makes a swipe for the flimsi and Padmé has to quickly pull it away. With a sigh, Padmé finally looks at the flimsi. There is a single symbol, the same rune that is carved onto her piece of Japor wood and a time and a set of coordinates.

Padmé's heart pounds in her chest. Not again. In the two months since she spoke with Lord Vader – with Anakin Skywalker – he has pursued her relentlessly. So far she has avoided speaking with him, but he isn't giving up. He wants to meet. Tonight. She breaks out in a cold sweat, nausea tightening her gut. No, Force, no.

"Are you okay?"

Padmé looks into Sheltay's concerned eyes and smiles sadly.

Sheltay puts a gentle arm around Padmé's shoulders. "Let's go home."

* * *

Padmé paces the veranda, absently turning the scrap of flimsi over and over in her hand. She doesn't want to see him. She can't. But she can't continue this way either. The constant push and pull from her former lover are driving her mad. She knows she gives him every opportunity to approach her, every opportunity to make contact. She can't help herself. She so desperately needs to be reassured he's really alive.

Part of her doesn't care. Doesn't care that he's Vader. Doesn't care that he murdered his Jedi brethren.

And that terrifies her.

She doesn't trust herself. She feels so helpless against the rushing tide of her emotions.

But as soon as she sees him, she flees. She doesn't have the nerve to actually speak to him. She doesn't even know what she could possibly say. Certainly she has no intention of telling him about Luke and Leia. And she has no intention of resuming their former relationship. She is a married woman with a loving husband.

She steels her resolve. She's going to do this. She's going to meet him. And she's going to make certain he never contacts her again. She has to. Luke and Leia and Bail deserve more from her than this wan, flighty creature she has become. It's time for hard decisions. She has to get on with her life.

* * *

She watches him slowly cross the landing platform and it's all she can do to stay rooted to the ground. She wants to run – whether to him or away from him, she isn't certain. Both scenarios hold a great deal of appeal.

He stops several feet from her. "You came," he says, thrusting it at her like a challenge.

There's that voice again – raspy and damaged, so unlike Anakin's. But there, beneath the dark hood, when he looks at her … his eyes are the same blue as Luke's. She tries to rein in her thoughts, to give him the speech she has been writing in her head for hours. But when she looks at him, it all fades away. "I can't – " she starts and then falls silent.

He smirks. "You are."

She shakes her head and paces several feet away from him, already infuriated by his smug manner. This is killing her to do this and he seems so flip. "I came here to tell you this has to stop. You have to leave me alone."

He follows, closing the distance. "You don't want me to leave you alone."

She looks up at him, pleading. It's night. She snuck away from home with some lame excuse she can't even remember. At least Bail isn't home. He had to return to Alderaan, but he will be back tomorrow. Padmé knows the twins are safe with Sheltay.

But what is she doing here? A clandestine meeting with Lord Vader under cover of night? Is she mad? It's windy on the landing platform and the cold air cuts easily through her cloak. She is shivering violently though whether from cold or nerves, she isn't certain.

"_Kriff_," he curses, pulling her close, wrapping his voluminous dark robes around her body.

As much as her mind screams to push him away, she allows him to pull her close, luxuriating in the warmth of his body. A sob catches in her throat. He smells the same. He shouldn't smell the same. It's unjustly cruel.

Before she fully comprehends what is happening, he has her bundled into his private shuttle. She sits there silently, in the co-pilot's chair as he takes the controls. She knows this is inevitable. They have to discuss things. She has to end _this. _

They don't speak or interact. She sits, staring at his profile while he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. What does he want with her? She notes that they are leaving the Ambassadorial Sector and heading for Orowood. Something inside her bristles. Orowood is the priciest real estate on Coruscant, even Bail doesn't have enough capital to secure a residence there. It's reserved to the financial elite – shipping magnates, heads of crime syndicates, presidents of technology and security conglomerates – and apparently for the Emperor's best henchman. Does he think an address in Orowood will somehow legitimize him? Does he think he can impress her with his newfound wealth? He lands the shuttle on the upper level of some monstrous apartment building – the Vivendi Towers if she isn't mistaken. She wasn't aware they were even finished yet. The Towers are certainly the most exclusive residence in the galaxy aside from the Imperial Palace.

He offers her a hand, which she refuses, pushing herself out of the chair. He is clearly irritated, but says nothing, preceding her from the shuttle, across the small landing platform and into the apartment. She looks around the apartment, shocked at the opulence. She can only imagine the exorbitant amount of credits expended decorating the space. She knows he brought her here in an attempt to impress her. She smolders with anger. Does he think her affections are available to the highest bidder?

"I guess the Empire pays better than the Republic," she says bitterly. He turns and gives her a sharp look which she ignores. "Or is this a perk of the job? Become right hand to the Emperor, get a great bachelor pad?"

He shrugs out of the heavy zeyd-cloth cloak, leaving him clad in a black tunic and pants not unlike the ones he wore as a Jedi. Take the bantha out of the dune sea, but you can't take the dune sea out of the bantha …

"The Emperor doesn't know about his place."

She purses her lips together, walking away from him to inspect the rest of the apartment. "I find that very hard to believe."

He follows, shadowing her closely. "I don't want you involved in anything Imperial."

She turns and looks up at him. "So aside from the obvious – like the fact that my husband is in the Imperial Senate - when you killed Fang Zar at my residence on Alderaan, it wasn't Imperial business?"

His expression is unreadable. "Fang Zar died aboard a Jedi controlled shuttle."

"Semantics, Anakin," she counters waspishly. "You tracked him to my home and you killed him on your Master's orders."

"Alderaan is Organa's home, not yours."

She turns away, walking to the expanse of windows and staring out at the night. She watches his reflection in the transparisteel, studying him as he comes to stand behind her.

"How is your husband?" he asks with feigned casualness. "Did you tell him where you were going tonight?"

Uncontrollably, she flinches, but tries to recover. "Of course. I tell Bail everything."

He tsks under his breath. "Now who's lying, Senator?"

She turns to face him, glaring. "My marriage is good."

"Your marriage is a joke," he says flatly. "Organa is an old man. It's a good thing you're getting practice changing diapers because soon they'll be his."

She grinds her teeth together. "Bail is quite …_vital."_

He laughs. "Yeah, right." He crosses his arms over his chest, appraising her for a long moment. He gestures toward her with his hand. "I like what you've got going on here. This general sense of dishevelment"

Fuming, she demands, "Are you saying I'm unattractive?"

"Oh, no," he clarifies vehemently, leaning in close, conspiratorially. "I'm saying you look like you haven't been _satisfied_ in a long,_long_ time."

She opens her mouth, aghast, intending to say something about his parentage, but he abruptly pulls back, smiling nastily. "I need a drink," he says and turns on his heel disappearing into the kitchen.

Padmé stands there, shaken. What is going on? What is she doing? Even at their worst, she and Anakin never traded barbs like this. She doesn't speak this way to anyone.

But the worst part about it is she _likes_ it. Her heart is pounding, her mind racing. For the first time in months she feels something other than crushing despair. It's intoxicating.

He returns from the kitchen carrying two glasses. He hands one to her.

"What is this?" she asks, looking at the amber liquid warily.

"Doesn't matter," he says, throwing back the liquor in one gulp. "Drink it."

Grimacing, she sets the glass on a nearby table, untouched. "I'm not having a cocktail with you in your … _lair_."

He huffs. "Now I'm a vornskyr?"

"I was thinking something decidedly more reptilian."

He frowns. "Do you any idea how many millions of credits I spent on this place?"

"Oh, I can imagine," she says, clearly unimpressed. She sighs deeply, crossing her arms over her chest. "What are we doing?" she asks softly.

"Fighting," he says plainly. "And hopefully _more_." He gives her a wicked grin.

Padmé shakes her head, looking out at the skyline. "I'm serious. What are we doing? What are _you_ doing?" She closes the distance between them. "Who are you, Anakin? What happened? How did you end up the Emperor's executioner?"

He frowns at her, clearly unhappy with the change of conversation topics.

When he doesn't answer, she presses, "How could you murder Jedi?"

"The Jedi betrayed the Republic," he snaps.

She shakes her head sadly. "There was no Republic left to betray, Anakin. How could you do it? How could you murder younglings? What about Obi-Wan? He was like your brother."

"Obi-Wan tried to_kill_ me!" he yells, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, his faced flushed, perspiration dotting his forehead. He turns away and starts pacing the lavishly appointed living room like a caged beast. "Your words are treason, Senator. I could have you arrested."

She watches him warily. "Is that what you want?"

He stops and glares at her sullenly. "No. I want you. I want to rule the galaxy with you at my side. I'm stronger than Palpatine. I can overthrow him."

She pales, reflexively taking a step away from him.

"You appreciate nothing," he bellows. "I did it for you. All of it for you and you throw it in my face."

She stares at him, having no idea what to say, no idea how to quiet the rage – and possibly madness – inside him. "Anakin, I never asked for this."

"I know," he snaps, baring his teeth at her like a rabid beast. "You asked nothing from me. You didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me you were marrying another man. You let me love you and then you treated me as if my love meant nothing!"

She rocks back on her heels, reeling from his vitriol. Did she do this to him? Did she drive him to commit these horrors? She shakes her head, quickly blinking back the tears that threaten to fall. She handled things with him badly. She will own up to that. But she will _not_ be held accountable for the atrocities he perpetrated. "You didn't do this for me," she whispers.

He growls, turning and throwing his empty glass at the windows. The glass shatters on impact with the transparisteel, splintering into a million tiny shards. Padmé flinches away despite being well out of range.

Her head instantly snaps to him and she watches as he grimaces, curling in on himself and clutching at his chest in pain. He takes a few deep, shaking breaths and slowly pushes himself back to his full height, staring at her defiantly.

"Were you injured?" she asks carefully.

He sticks his chin out. "I told you Obi-Wan tried to kill me."

She swallows thickly. "What happened?"

He shakes his head with finality, looking away. "Nothing that concerns you."

He takes a step, but his gait catches mid step and it's more of a stagger. She can see his jaw muscles flex as he grinds his teeth together.

Without thinking, she crosses the room to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Anakin, what happened?"

He looks at her and smiles a wry, bitter smile. "My … _injuries_ are slow to heal." He bows his head and then looks to the side, away from her. "The Emperor says it's mental. As soon as I learn to control my powers, I will be able to heal myself."

"What kind of injuries, Anakin?" Padmé presses forcefully.

He shakes his head again, taking several lurching steps away from her. "I'll be fine," he says. "I just took another dose of meds. They'll take a few minutes to work and then I'll be fine."

She stares at him, aghast. "You're taking _drugs_ now?"

He glares at her. "Not drugs. _Pain medication_. Do you want to see what dear Obi-Wan – my _brother_ – did to me?"

Without waiting for her reply, he rips open the tunic, revealing his horribly scarred and disfigured chest. The wound – a burn, it had to be a burn – has healed, but not well. The flesh is shiny and red with huge, disfiguring suture marks bisecting his chest. It looks like he was slapped together by jawas, not surgeons.

She looks back to his face and he's staring at her defiantly, but his eyes are glassy with unshed tears and his breathing is labored. He expects her to be horrified, revolted.

Closing the distance between them, she places one hand against his cheek and the other ever so gently against his chest. _"Oh, Anakin," _she breathes, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She doesn't know how long they stand there, but a long time. Eventually he lifts his hand, cupping her jaw and wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. She looks up at him and his color is better, his breathing less labored.

"I miss you," he says quietly.

Though she knows to the very depth of her soul that it's a mistake, she replies, "I miss you too."

He lowers his head, gently pressing his lips to hers. She sighs, kissing him back. It's slow and tentative, this thumb plays along her jaw as his lips nip hesitantly at hers. Her tears start again, but she ignores them, threading her fingers through his hair and deepening the kiss.

* * *

He drapes his tunic around her shoulders before pulling on his trousers. He turns on a small lamp that provides meager illumination and then disappears into the kitchen. She can hear him rummaging around and he appears moments later with an assortment of food and a glass of wine, which he hands to her.

She sips it tentatively, watching him unwrap the food and set it on a small table he dragged close to the sofa. He hands her a piece of cheese and she looks at him warily. "You need to eat," he says plainly.

No doubt he's right. She nibbles at the cheese and is shocked to find that for the first time in months, she's actually hungry. He laughs as she pushes him out of the way, grabbing a piece of bread. They sit there in comfortable silence. He watches her eat, occasionally stealing sips of wine, his fingers playing along the bare skin of her leg.

* * *

It's late morning before she returns to the penthouse at 500 Republica. Sheltay gives her a questioning look, but says nothing as Padmé heads for the fresher. She and Anakin eventually moved to the bedroom which was as ridiculously lavish as the rest of the apartment. They made love again and finally slept.

It was morning when she woke alone. She suspects he let her sleep both because she needed it and because it would make her excuses to Bail all the more difficult. A shuttle and driver were waiting to convey her home. She spent the entire ride staring at her wedding band and her Japor snippet.

She's disgusted with herself for betraying Bail. She knows it isn't right. But last night nourished her in ways she cannot explain. It gave her proof that something of Anakin Skywalker remains – that he hasn't been entirely consumed by Darth Vader.

She has no idea what she's doing. She has no idea what will happen. She loves Anakin. And she loves Bail. And for the first time in a very long time, she feels like she can live with that, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

[End Section


	8. Condolences

**TITLE:Condolences**

**SERIES:** The Senator's Wife

**TIMELINE:** set several months after the events of "Old, New, Borrowed, Blue". (Luke and Leia are about nine months old)

**SUMMARY:** Padmé visits her family on Naboo.

* * *

"It's about time you came home for a visit."

Padmé looks over at her older sister, ignoring the chastising glare. "It hasn't been _that _long."

"It has too and you know it," Sola counters. "You shouldn't do that to Mom. Especially not when grandchildren are involved."

"So Pooja and Ryoo don't count now?" Padmé asks sourly. She glances out the windows, watching her parents play with the twins in the garden.

"It's hardly the same. Luke and Leia are babies."

Padmé sighs, again wondering at the wisdom of her vacation. It would be easier if Bail were here to buffer between Padmé and her family, but he was called away just as they were leaving for Naboo. Hopefully he will be able to join them in several days. "It's difficult to get away from Coruscant."

"You're retired."

"But Bail isn't."

Silence settles between the two sisters. Sola picks up the pair of knitting needles and ball of yarn she set on the table earlier and resumes her project to knit matching hats for the twins.

"So … " Sola prods, "your marriage to Bail was quite unexpected. You had a very short courtship."

Padmé glances up at her sister. "Bail and I have known each other for years. We've always been close friends."

"Friends, yes, but I didn't realize it had become more than that. _No one_ realized it had become more than that."

Padmé doesn't reply, both irritated and saddened by her sister's questions. It's true her marriage to Bail shocked the family, though Padmé knows a big part of the reason it was so shocking is that she no longer confides in her sister or her mother. Their lives are simply too different. Padmé hoped having children would heal some of that rift. And it has in certain ways. But in other ways it simply made it more apparent.

"Why did you take Bail's name?" Sola asks.

Padmé groans and cradles her head in her hands. "Mom took Dad's last name. Why is this such a big deal?"

"I didn't say it was a big deal. I'm just asking."

"Because Bail is the last of his line, okay? And Ryoo and Pooja already have the Naberrie name."

Silence once again descends. Several minutes later, Sola says gently, "I wasn't judging. I was just asking."

Padmé shoots her sister a wry, disbelieving glance but doesn't reply.

"You look better," Sola says, quickly scanning Padmé with her eyes. "A lot better than when Mom and I came to see you on Coruscant right after the twins were born."

Padmé shrugs and looks away. "It was a … _ difficult_ time."

"I know how closely you worked with the Jedi. It can't have been easy to witness their extermination."

Padmé doesn't look up. She can't. "No. It wasn't easy."

Sola sets her knitting down on the table and stands. She walks to the windows and watches her parents playing with their youngest grandchildren. It is a beautiful spring day and the babies, who are just learning to crawl, love being outside in the fresh air. "Leia looks just like you when you were little," Sola says with a grin. "And just as ornery."

Padmé looks up at her sister and smiles.

"And Luke looks just like his father," Sola adds quietly.

Padmé swallows thickly and forces herself to laugh. "Bail will love to hear that. Everyone thinks Leia is the one that looks like him."

Sola's expression becomes serious, but still kind. "I don't mean Bail, Padmé. I mean your Jedi."

Padmé's eyes sting with tears and she has to blink quickly to prevent them from falling. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please stop, Padmé," Sola softly rebukes, her voice gentle despite the intensity of her words. "I know."

Padmé stares at the tabletop for several long moments before she lifts her head. "Does Mom know?"

"Yeah." Sola nods. "But I don't think Dad does."

Padmé sits there thinking she should feel relieved, but mostly she tries not to burst into tears.

"Does Bail know?"

"Of course he knows," Padmé counters, outraged. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Sola hold her hands up in surrender. "I wasn't implying anything."

"Yes you were," Padmé snaps. She stands up and walks into the kitchen trailed by Sola. "You were implying I tricked Bail into marrying me."

"Not _tricked_," Sola clarifies. "I simply thought it might have been … _convenient._"

At Padmé's outraged look, Sola takes a step back. "I don't mean to sound mercenary," she stresses. "I just mean …" She sighs, looking at her sister with concern. "Padmé you looked so awful when we saw you, so sad. I know Anakin must have been killed with the rest of the Jedi."

Padmé flinches as if struck by Sola's words.

Sola reaches out, taking one of Padmé's hands. "For you to not even be able to mourn him … Padmé, I'm sorry."

Padmé allows Sola to pull her into a hug and is shocked to find comfort in her sister's embrace. She hugs Sola tighter, sobbing quietly.

"You loved him, didn't you?" Sola asks.

"Yes," Padmé chokes.

Padmé finally pulls away, looking at her sister. Sola reaches up, gently wiping away one of Padmé's tears. "I'm so sorry, Padmé," she says. "I'm so sorry for all you've lost."

Padmé smiles, both grateful and bitter. "You have no idea," she whispers.

End


End file.
